Never mind the cough
by Rephis
Summary: Something dangerous has worked its way into John's system, and is slowly but inexorably ravaging the doctor from inside. How long will it take him and Sherlock to understand just how serious the situation is? Too long, perhaps. Sick!fic, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, Sherlockians. May I present you with my newest story! This is your standard, old-fashioned sick!fic, featuring dear John Watson as the victim. The POV will be mainly John's or Sherlock's. It's also more than likely that there will be an unbearable amount of medical inaccuracies, some deliberate and some not, but I did my best to make it at least partly realistic. Mary isn't here, but not because I don't like her. I just wanted to write a bromance-only filled sick!fic, don't judge me. It can be considered a sort of an AU, though there's no set timeline._

_This piece is a very simple and rather light one, made for entertainment purposes only :) There will be some OOC fluff, some feels, some stupid humour, and the most basic of plots. Still, I hope you will enjoy reading it._

* * *

It was nearing midday when John finally dragged himself off his bed, but the moment he stood up, he wished nothing more than to jump right back beneath the covers and into their blissfully warm embrace. He reluctantly peeked through the curtains, but what he saw didn't make him feel any more enthusiastic about the prospect of leaving the house. Even though he's lived in London almost all his life, the bouts of overwhelming greyness and humidity have never been something he particularly cherished.

John sighed and wrapped his thick, fluffy dressing gown tighter around himself. There wasn't a choice, really. He had already missed his shifts twice in the last two weeks because of cases, and he didn't want to push his luck again. He wasn't ill, after all – just plain miserable, like most people during this time of year.

He slowly made his way downstairs, yawning widely.

"Ah, finally," his flatmate's bored voice came from the kitchen. "I was starting to think you might have fallen into a coma."

John smiled wryly.

"Hello to you too. And don't exaggerate. Have you forgotten we came back at four in the morning?" Yawning again, he started preparing tea.

"No, I haven't. I was there too," Sherlock replied without looking up from his microscope. "But I fail to see how that has anything to do with you sleeping like a log for half a day."

"Of course you do. There was no one to bring you tea in the morning, was there?" John teased as he leant against the counter, much more awake than moments earlier; there was nothing like a little bit of a morning (well, not really morning) routine to put him back on his feet.

A distracted 'mhhm' was the only answer he got.

A few minutes later he placed one mug of fresh tea in front of the seemingly oblivious detective, and quietly seated himself opposite with another mug in hand. Less than half an hour later, he was already gone. Sherlock didn't even notice his departure; only after he almost knocked his mug over did he realise he was alone. He didn't mind, naturally – without John talking nonsense above him, he could fully focus on his samples instead of pretending to be listening. Admittedly, another tea would be nice.

As Sherlock tested his samples, John was slowly travelling through the city. He tried to entertain himself by practising deductions on the passengers of the tube, but their expressionless faces were just as gray and dull as the world above, and he lost interest soon. Once he arrived at his destination, he had to quickly forget about his misery when more and more waves of patients began flooding the small clinic.

Three days later, his own symptoms began to spike.

As he shuffled upstairs to the flat, he could almost hear his muscles scream at him in protest with each move. His blocked nose was forcing him to breathe through his mouth, and he really didn't like the sounds his lungs were making. He didn't even know he was in the flat already, until Sherlock's voice hit him like a sonic boom.

"You're back early. That's good, Lestrade called us. We're going to Crimson Street right away," the detective commanded in greeting, and began putting his coat on.

John groaned. Going anywhere but to his own bed was not appealing at all.

"Uh, can't you go alone?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'd really rather stay and get a bit of sleep, if you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock paused for a moment and regarded his blogger closely. When he spoke, his voice held no hint of concern that he might be rejected.

"Well, actually I do. While I see that the state of your health is far from perfect, it also isn't bad enough to influence the rightness of your medical judgement which, given the being incompetence of the members of Scotland Yard, I will most definitely need. So, shall we go now?" With that, he motioned towards the door, and gave his friend a look that left no doubt about the purpose of the rant.

It wasn't a compliment, but a threat. 'Don't go, and I'll make sure you'll be too embarrassed to show around me for weeks,' it said. John had once made the mistake of ignoring that very specific, sugar-coated challenge, and he still regretted it. Sherlock Holmes avenging the lack of attention was a terrifying force, and one that the doctor had no strength to fight at the moment.

Without a word, John moved towards the staircase with resignation. He could mentally see the stupid smirk forming on Sherlock's face as the man followed him downstairs.

Soon after they entered the cab and took off, Sherlock's phone began ringing. The shrill sound made John wince and involuntarily move his head away.

"What is it, Lestrade? I told you we're coming," the detective spoke somewhat quietly.

"Yeah, I know, but listen...," the DI started but then paused, and for a moment Sherlock could only hear muffled voices in the background. "Yeah, sorry. We've just been informed that there might be something important about our victim in a house on Everett's Street, perhaps some documents or files. It's close to where you two live, so I thought that you might drop by and check it. Before the team gets there, that is."

Sherlock frowned. Lestrade asking him to check a trail on his own, without a tail of stupid cops peering over his shoulder? Something had to be up.

'Oh... of course. It's that stupid woman again,' he thought, smiling meanly. Lately, a new face appeared in Lestrade's unit, and she was a true pain in the arse. Their first conversation almost got Sherlock banned from crime scenes, but he simply couldn't wait to see her again. Her pettiness amused him to no end, and apparently she was with Lestrade today.

"I see," he addressed the DI, his voice not betraying anything. "But I think I'll just leave that to John, surely he'll do." John glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh. Alright. If you say so," Lestrade sighed. Moments later the call was disconnected, and Sherlock turned to the doctor to inform him of the change of plan. John wasn't overly keen, but we wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Twenty minutes later, he decided that listening to Sherlock might have been not such a bad idea after all. The sights were definitely worth a bit of discomfort; the woman who owned the house was stunning and so tastefully shapely that John had a hard time focusing on her words.

"This way, doctor Watson. I'll show where all of professor Mayers' belongings are," she said politely, and he followed her right away. "I just can't believe it. I talked to him just a week ago. He was such an intelligent man, but an absolute crank for collecting stuff. The things I have here have been lying untouched for years." The creak the basement door made upon opening made John want to clutch his head. "I'm afraid that whatever they told you about any files was just a rumour."

"What makes you think so?" he asked through clenched teeth as they walked downstairs.

"Well, if there were any, I don't think he would have ever let _this_ happen to them." She gestured widely to the contents of the basement.

John took a look around the poorly lit room, but the first thing that hit him was the atrocious smell of decay. He could feel it even through his blocked nose, and it almost made him sway.

"Sorry about that," the woman said as she approached one of the shelves. "We've had a small flood here some time ago, and I didn't have the time to clean up. Everything that belonged to professor Mayers is in here, but I think it really is just some random junk. Feel free to take a look, if you want to."

There were certainly things in the nasty basement that he wanted to look at more than at a pile of smelly papers, but his desire to leave the place as soon as possible was even greater. Not even knowing what he was supposed to search for, John walked up to a random shelf, lifted the first book that caught his eye and wiped a bit of dust off its cover. It was made of parchment or leather, he didn't know for sure. He was about to open it in a naive hope of finding anything, when suddenly his phone came to life, and he accidentally knocked multiple books off the shelf, causing a massive cloud of dust to form around him. Coughing and cursing his clumsiness, he picked up.

"Sherlock! Would you mind telling me what exactly am I doing here? There's nothing but junk in this place," he grumbled, and coughed again.

"I've told you, Lestrade claims there might be some files. And why are you coughing like that? It sounds different."

"Ah, it's dust. Better just tell me where I should look."

The stupidly small thing that was the books falling seemed to have pushed him dangerously close to the edge. His flatmate remained oblivious, and John's earlier decision of being grateful towards him turned into a wish of strangling the detective with his bare hands.

"Right. First check for any boxes. If something's important, it can rarely be found in plain sight. Particularly..."

Sherlock carried on, but John could hardly follow. The dense, damp air was starting to make him dizzy, and the dust irritated his eyes and throat. It wasn't long before both he and his companion had enough of all the dirt and left the basement, coughing and sputtering.

By that time, John was furious. He did find a few important documents thanks to the instructions, but he was utterly done with dust, basements and Sherlock for that day. When the team finally arrived, he quickly handed them his findings, said goodbye to the lovely owner, and decided it was time to go home.

'To hell with Sherlock! Let him insult whoever he wants, why do I even care? He clearly doesn't, that much is obvious,' he thought angrily as he wiped the dust off his jacket. His flatmate had a truly remarkable talent of annoying him even without being there.

It took John a few moments to flag down a cab. When he entered it, he turned his phone off and leant back into the soft seat, dreaming of the awaiting comfort of his bed. Not even two hours since his arrival at 221B, the door to the flat opened with a bang, startling the doctor awake. He grabbed his duvet and hid his face beneath it with a groan. That had to be Sherlock, ready and willing to make his day even worse.

What John didn't know was that the detective was actually mildly concerned. He had texted John multiple times, and the mere fact that his phone was apparently turned off was enough to spike his suspicion. When he arrived at Everett's Street he wasn't certain what to expect, but the owner of the house and the present policemen assured him that all was well. He wanted to go back to Lestrade and just leave John on his own as a form of revenge, but since he solved the case minutes after taking a look at the files collected by his blogger, he decided to go home anyway and just make sure.

Sherlock was not about to let his concern show, naturally. Soon, he walked up the stairs to the doctor's room and opened the door bluntly, not even bothering to knock. The relief of seeing his friend safe quickly turned into irritation.

"Why have you turned your phone off? You were supposed to come to Crimson Street once you were finished," he said accusingly. John really wasn't all that sick; he just had a cold, and it was hardly a reason to act childishly.

"Bugger off, Sherlock," came a muffled creak from beneath the covers. "Let me die in peace."

The detective rolled his eyes. To think that _he_ was called a drama queen!

"Stop whining, you just have a cold. You're far more likely to die from a bullet than from a bit of germs." With that, he turned on his heel and exited the room, but just before closing the door he added: "Don't turn off your phone the next time you feel like scurrying away, so I won't have to waste time looking for you."

The moment he shut the door behind himself, Sherlock began wondering why he said that, and why it turned out so harsh. After all, it was _him_ who bullied John into leaving Baker Street in the first place. Some time later, when John still hasn't left his room, he decided that it wouldn't hurt to play a good friend for once. With a mug of fresh, bitter tea in hand, he soon treaded upstairs again.

The doctor's dishevelled head peeked out from the bundle of covers and blankets, and through squinted eyes he looked at Sherlock with reluctance, but it dissipated when he saw the steaming mug.

"Oh," he muttered. "You made tea. Nice."

"Yeah. Thought you might want some." Sherlock stood there for second, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Taking care of any sick individuals was certainly not his milieu; even the simple act of bringing John tea to his bed was somewhat awkward to him.

He quietly walked up to the nightstand and put the mug on it. _There. Wasn't that hard, was it?_

John reached for the tea, and leant over the mug with content. "Hmm. Thanks, Sherlock. But don't think I'm going to apologise."

"What? Oh, that."

The detective remained where he was standing, not sure of what to do next. John took a tentative sip and looked at him a bit pityingly.

"Okay, I see you're at loss. You can go, really. I think I'm going to sleep some more."

Sherlock nodded stiffly, and moments later John was alone again.

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_What do you think? Leave a few words, please.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you everyone who read, commented, faved and followed :)  
_

* * *

About a week later it became clear that it wasn't just a cold. John was in his bed almost all the time, and his symptoms were growing stronger rather than weakening under the influence of common antibiotics. What had been a minor muscle ache before was a true torture now, and every touch, every move caused his oversensitive nerves to writhe; even lifting a mug of tea or rubbing his face was painful.

God, how he hated being ill. Some thought that being a doctor and dealing with countless sick people should prepare you, but the simple truth was that doctors didn't have it any easier at all when illness finally struck. They weren't even necessarily more careful about their health, and John was a perfect example of that kind of doctors.

He desperately needed sleep, but the latest coughing fits were making it hard for him to even take a proper nap. When the last attack ended, he was so exhausted that he almost passed out, and he took it as a sign that it was about time _he _visited a doctor.

Droplets of cold sweat rolled down his temples and neck, making him shiver as he lay among the wrinkled sheets. Finally he gathered himself and was about to get up, when someone knocked on his door. _Definitely not Sherlock._

"Come in, Mrs Hudson," he called.

The old lady entered the room, making absolutely no noise. John smiled upon seeing a bowl in her hands.

"Hello dear," she all but whispered, and put the bowl on the tray lying on his bed. "I brought you some chicken soup. It's very hot, so better be careful."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, you're an angel. Thank you, that's exactly what I needed," he almost purred as he inhaled the deliciously smelling steam. At least his nose wasn't blocked anymore. "Just don't be surprised when I won't be here for another few hours or so."

A frown appeared on the old lady's face. "Where are you going? I hope Sherlock isn't trying to drag you out of the house again."

"What? No, no, I'm going to the hospital," John said casually, stirring the contents of the bowl to cool the soup a little.

"Oh God. Is it that serious? I thought it was just flu..."

"Oh, don't worry," he placated. "I just have to do some tests. I think I might have pneumonia, but I don't know for sure." He paused when another wet cough shook him. "Once I do know and start taking the right antibiotics, I'll get better in no time."

He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. He still remembered how long it had taken him to get over pneumonia the last time, and it most certainly wasn't an easy road.

Mrs Hudson looked at him with concern so motherly genuine that a bit of warmth filled his sore chest. 'Bless this woman's precious heart,' he thought fondly.

"Alright, John. If you want me to come with you, just let me know."

The doctor let out a small laugh. He didn't need _that_ much help.

"Thanks, but I'll be fine, really."

Once Mrs Hudson left, he quickly downed the soup, and then finally left his bed. Getting to the shower was a challenge, but it was nothing in comparison to the feeling of water hitting his aching body, and getting dressed wasn't much easier either. It took him ridiculously long, but eventually he was ready.

.

The magnetic stirrer was too loud. The laboratory glass dryer was too loud. Molly's breathing was too loud.

Sherlock grumbled in exasperation as his thoughts drifted away again. All of his attempts at focussing on the computer screen were remaining futile, and it was driving him insane. He placed his fingertips on his temples, shut his eyes tightly and tried once more.

Seeing this uncharacteristic lack of concentration was making Molly wonder. Of course she noticed that it began shortly after John has fallen ill, but she hadn't wanted to risk being told off for asking questions; now, however, she couldn't stop herself anymore.

"So...," she started tentatively, "how's John? You haven't said a word about him for three days, is he alright?"

Sherlock breathed a petulant sigh, and looked at the pathologist with reluctance.

"He isn't dead, if you had any doubts. He's certainly acting as if he's about to die, though, and stubbornly remains ill and needy. Is there something else you _have to_ know, or can we both go back to work?" With that, he turned back to the computer.

Upon receiving such an answer, Molly wanted to drop the topic, but truth was that she did want to know more. John was her friend too, after all.

She crossed her arms. Why on earth should she just drop it?

"Well, actually I'm curious. I don't remember him ever being ill for over a week," she said, making it clear she was not going to let him ignore her. That got his attention.

"Then why don't you text him? He'll be delighted to have yet another person to torment about his misery."

"Torment? Sherlock, he's ill. And even if he's exaggerating a bit, do I have to remind you how annoying _you_ were when you'd caught the flu?" she replied with a frown. She doubted she was ever going to get used to how much of an insensitive bastard Sherlock could be sometimes.

The detective looked away despite himself. Of course he remembered; about two months earlier, he'd been brought down with illness for over a week, and it was naturally John who took care of him (with the help of their landlady). A few vicious arguments didn't go amiss, and the doctor once even threatened to knock him out so that he would finally shut up and stay in his bed, but Sherlock still had to admit that having someone look after him was far from undesirable.

That didn't mean that he necessarily had to do the same for John, however. In fact, he was sure that his flatmate was rather glad not to have him awkwardly hover around and try to be useful. It was no secret that Sherlock wasn't the best at caretaking, and John has made it clear that he did not expect the detective to sit by his bedside. Technically, there was no reason to feel obliged to play a tutelary friend, so why couldn't he shake the guilt away?

Not letting anything show on his face, he looked at Molly defiantly.

"Molly, please go boost up your self-esteem somewhere else. I'm trying to focus." He motioned to the computer, and as if on cue, the screen saver turned on.

Sherlock could sense Molly's smirk without having to look at her.

"I can see that," she said triumphantly. "You should really go home and check on him if you can't concentrate anyway. Or just call him."

He clenched his jaw; she was really beginning to grate on his nerves. He was _not_ worried about John.

"It's your nagging that's distracting me. You should really stop listening to your new boyfriend's instructions to try and stand up to me. It's not going to work," he grumbled.

Much to his surprise, the pathologist didn't back down. Quite on the contrary, she straightened her back like a soldier, and raised her chin with very uncharacteristic determination.

"You'll not be telling me what to do. That's none of your business, anyway. Also, you might want to remember that this is _my_ lab, Sherlock." The message was clear.

The detective raised an eyebrow. Whoever Molly's new partner was, he appeared to be doing a rather decent job, and Sherlock wasn't sure he liked it. Fortunately, Molly didn't press further, and just marched back to her microscope. Sherlock hated not having the last word, but what was even worse was the fact that he realised she was right. While John's declining health had been just a minor inconvenience at first, now it was annoyingly hard for the detective to dismiss.

After another hour or so of tardy work, he gave up. He got dressed, bid Molly a curt goodbye and left the lab with a swish of his long coat.

He stopped his cab next to a grocery store behind the corner of Baker Street. He intended to buy some stuff for John to bribe his own conscience, but upon entering the shop he realised he had no idea what to choose. He tried to recall what John had treated him with when the roles were switched, but since their eating habits were polar opposites, it was hardly helpful. Not thinking much, Sherlock transferred himself from shelf to shelf, collecting more and more random packets of biscuits and other snacks. Balance of probability was that John would like at least a few of them.

A couple of minutes later he was back at Baker Street, already feeling a bit cross. Why did he even listen to Molly? It really wasn't like John needed him; there was Mrs Hudson, after all. He began seriously considering going back to the lab with a late but trenchant riposte right after leaving the shopping in the kitchen, but when he saw that John's shoes and jacket were gone, he became suspicious. There weren't many reasons for the doctor to leave the house.

Sherlock put the bags on the kitchen floor, and trotted downstairs to knock at his landlady's door. It took her a moment to open.

"What is it, dear?"

"Where is John, Mrs Hudson?" he demanded.

"Oh, he's gone to the hospital. Didn't he tell you?"

A small weight formed in Sherlock's stomach.

"It's alright," the old lady assured him quickly. "He said he just has to do some tests. Though he, um..."

"Yes?"

"He suspects he might have pneumonia, so it'll be a while before comes around."

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. Somehow, the desire to return to the lab dissipated from his mind completely. He thanked Mrs Hudson and went back upstairs in a sour mood.

Why hasn't John told him? And more importantly, why hasn't he noticed that the problem was serious? He should have definitely paid more attention. Admittedly, he's been quite busy during the week, but he must have been literally blind if he missed it. Or perhaps he's been deliberately ignoring it.

He removed his coat and flopped down on the couch. He felt a stupid desire to call John, but decided that would be just ridiculous. Pneumonia was not the end of the world.

* * *

_Sorry it was shorter than the first one, but I hope you liked it. Yeah, I know it was a filler. Leave a word or two, please :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you all for your support! Your lovely comments and the favs and follows are extremely encouraging :)_

_Today's chapter: Sherlock tries, and John is a child._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Eventually, heavy footsteps resounded on the staircase. It took John a bit longer than usual to reach the flat, and once he did, he was completely exhausted. His lungs were hurting as if they were on fire, he was soaked with cold sweat and trembling like a leaf.

At the sight of him, something twisted slightly in Sherlock's chest. His flatmate was a picture of misery, and there really was no exaggeration this time.

"Sherlock? Didn't expect you here. Thought you were at Bart's," John creaked in greeting, and began slowly moving towards the kitchen.

The detective followed him. "I was. How about you, hm? What did they tell you?"

It took John a few seconds to understand. "What? Oh. Right, in the hospital. Mrs Hudson told you?"

"Mhhm."

John shrugged and put the small, plastic bag he was holding on the table.

"It's almost definitely pneumonia. I had a scan, and all the signs are there." He gestured to the bag. "I've already bought some antibiotics, though I'll have to get some more later."

"Right."

Slightly awkward silence fell, but Sherlock then remembered about his own shopping.

"Listen, um . . . ," he started and reached for the two bags that John hasn't even noticed before. "I dropped by to a grocery and . . . thought you'd like some of these." With that, he gustily emptied one of the bags on the table, causing two packets to drop to the floor with a loud rustle.

John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Now that was not a sight he was used to.

"O-okay. What made you interested all of sudden?" His eyes narrowed. "I swear, if you're trying to experiment on me again, I'll . . ."

"What? No! No. I was just trying to, um . . . ." _To do what, exactly?_ "You don't have to take them, if you don't want to," the detective grumbled.

"Oh, don't be a child. You can't expect me not to be suspicious over any food you give me, and I'm sure you know why."

Sherlock did not respond; John had a point he couldn't undermine.

"That being said," the doctor continued with resignation, "if you really haven't drugged them or something, I'm not going to refuse. I'll certainly need some stuff to chew on if I'm to spend another week in bed, so thanks."

The prospect of it was not appealing at all; in fact, John was already bored to death with the illness. Sherlock's gesture was endearing and unexpected, but John supposed that was all he was going to get. It wasn't like he was hoping for more, anyway.

Fighting the tremor in his hands, he began preparing tea, but the process was agonisingly slow. The journey to the hospital and the relentless fits of coughing added to his raising temperature and aching muscles seemed to have drained the little energy he had left.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, gave himself a mental shove and walked up the miserable doctor.

"Here, let me do this," he said, taking the mug from John's unsteady hands. "Go upstairs, I'll bring it there with your meds."

John regarded him warily. Sherlock had to admit that the abnormal glassiness of his big eyes was rather disconcerting.

"Alright, what is this about? First you bring me biscuits, and now you're offering to make tea for the second time in a week? You must be up to something," the doctor accused, pointing a finger at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was no wonder why he's been avoiding contact with him as of late - the ill man's moodiness was maddening.

"Oh, don't be stupid. I see that you need assistance, so I offer assistance. And before you ask – no, I haven't done anything wrong, so stop looking for evil ploys, because there aren't any." He pushed past John and started loudly putting the snacks back in the bag, wondering why he had emptied it in the first place.

"Go to your room," he repeated over his shoulder, since John was still glued to the spot.

"Yes, mother," the doctor replied with a childish sneer, and finally started moving towards the stairs. "And I still bet you're up to something. You never help when there's nothing in it for you."

Sherlock paused for a moment. John's words actually stung a little bit, but the detective wasn't certain why. He knew he shouldn't blame his friend – given the previous seeming lack of interest in his well-being, as well as a whole range of past incidents, the man had a lot of reasons to suspect shady intentions. Still, Sherlock was not fine with that awareness. It just didn't feel right.

A couple of minutes later he reached John's room with the plastic bags in one hand, and the mug in the other. The door was slightly ajar, so that he didn't have to tamper with the handle.

John was perched on his bed, leaning against the bedpost. He was clutching his covers tightly, and his eyes were shut.

"Shouldn't you just lay on your back?" Sherlock spoke in a soft voice as he placed the snacks on the floor within the doctor's reach.

John's eyes snapped open, and focused on his flatmate with difficulty.

"Can't," he muttered. "Coughing hurts like hell when I'm horizontal."

"Oh. Alright. So, um . . . in case you need something else, text me. Or start screaming, I don't know."

With that, the detective began moving towards the door. There really wasn't much else he could do; John needed to rest alone.

"I think I'll just text," John chuckled as another shiver shook his body. "And Sherlock? Thanks. And sorry for being a pain in the arse."

A small smirk crossed Sherlock's features.

"It's nothing, I can be a lot worse. Now rest."

.

As expected, it took another week for John to start getting better, and a few more days to become functional again. Once his temperature began going back to normal, the other symptoms diminished as well; only the stubborn cough lingered, but it was nothing unusual.

When he was finally strong enough to leave his bed for prolonged periods of time without staggering, he was close to bouncing off the walls. Over two weeks of being bedridden were definitely too much for the thrill-seeking doctor, and though he still wasn't truly back to his usual self, the excitement that filled him when Sherlock informed him about a new case was keener than ever.

"Hi, you two," Lestrade greeted them when they arrived at the crime scene. "How are you feeling, John? It's been a while since you last showed up," he addressed the doctor after Sherlock rushed upstairs.

"I'm a lot better now, thanks." John paused to cough into his hand, earning himself a questioning look. "I'm fine, really. Just still expectorating. It sounds worse than it is."

Greg shrugged; John was a medical man after all, so he probably knew what he was saying.

"Okay. Good you're getting over it. Now, let's go after him before he insults everyone on the team again." Greg nodded to the upper floors, and moved towards the staircase.

John let out a small groan as he followed the DI. Though Sherlock kept claiming that he hadn't done anything wrong during his absence on cases, John knew better. He suspected it wasn't anything nearly as bad as hijacking a double-decker(he still couldn't forgive Sherlock for not letting him participate in that stunt), but he knew from experience that letting the detective out his sight for over two weeks almost certainly meant that the atmosphere wasn't going to be pleasant.

"Oh, man. Should I be worried?" he panted.

"Nah, it wasn't_ that_ bad. Nothing in comparison to how obnoxious he used to be. Be careful with Karen, though."

"She's here? Shit."

Karen was the name of the new woman in Lestrade's team. John couldn't say that he liked her; she was quite annoying with her blatant jealousy of Sherlock's skills, but he lived in the hope that she was going to eventually accept the simple fact that his flatmate was better than pretty much everybody else. For now, however, it seemed that there was still a long and bumpy road before them. Sherlock wasn't making it easier either, and John knew that his friend genuinely enjoyed cutting the woman down to size.

Sighing inwardly, John entered the room where the detective was hovering over a body perched in a posh, leather armchair.

"Took you long enough," the tall man muttered, not raising his head. "Come over here, I need your opinion."

For those who weren't listening closely, it might have sounded like the most common thing in the world, but John immediately knew it was a part of the show. There wasn't much of choice than to play along.

He greeted the other members of the team with nods, and walked up to the chair. After a few moments of examining the corpse, he slowly straightened his back.

"Right. Male, about forty. Appears quite healthy, so the lack of an apparent cause of death indicates it wasn't natural." He paused. That was not the most brilliant of deductions. "Though you know it of course, which is why we're here," he added quickly. The stupid illness was clearly still affecting his thinking process.

He took a look at the deceased man again. There was really nothing unusual about the way he was sitting, or how his limb were placed, nothing John could definitely identify as a proof that someone else had been involved. Feeling Sherlock's expectant look an himself, he decided to go with what he had.

"Okay, so he seems healthy, but it doesn't necessarily mean he was. I guess we _could_ assume that he was poisoned, but then you guys would probably know something about it already," he looked at Lestrade, who nodded. Sherlock remained silent.

"I see no traces of any sorts of trauma, though we'll know for sure after the autopsy. But . . . ." He paused again to take one more wide look at the corpse. "I think it _is_ possible that he had some sort of an undiagnosed condition, I've seen such cases before, even with younger people. I have nothing more at the moment," he ended with resignation, suddenly feeling very tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose against the slight dizziness, and looked back at Sherlock who was observing him with narrowed eyes.

"Go ahead, just say what it actually was, and stop staring at me like that," he grumbled. "I'm out of practice, give me a break."

Sherlock didn't let it show that was completely misunderstood. He faced the team, his smug mask perfectly in place.

"Actually, John might be right," he said neutrally, and all heads in the room turned to him in surprise. "I haven't found much more myself, which means there isn't much to find. Whatever killed this man had probably been nesting inside him for a while, and remained unnoticed or ignored until it was too late."

Sherlock regarded the team with pity, letting his eyes stay on Karen for a moment longer. "You know, I think you've exceeded your usual level of incompetence today. Even my indisposed flatmate was able to deduce in less than five minutes that all of this is a waste of time. Bravo."

Lestrade scratched his head awkwardly. John could literally feel the air get thick with anger of the Yarders; particularly Karen seemed dangerously close to exploding, and the doctor didn't even have enough strength to intervene. As expected, the silence was broken soon.

"Oh come, on! Detective Inspector, you can't honestly believe this maniac," Karen snapped, gesturing to Sherlock with distaste. "How the hell can he tell all of this minutes within coming here, while knowing absolutely nothing about the victim?"

Sherlock looked at her again, not even trying to hide his contempt.

"I don't have to know it. It's what I _see_ that's important, not the useless 'data' you always waste time on obtaining instead of actually observing what is right in front of your noses," he said haughtily.

She opened her mouth, but Greg reacted in time.

"Okay, enough you two! Do you have to do it _every_ time?" He glared at Sherlock, who gave a lazy shrug. "And you, Karen - stop tempting him."

There was some more grumbling and muttering, but it died down quite fast; Sherlock was satisfied with showing everyone how much they screwed up, so he didn't try to cause more trouble.

He wasn't sure why he was feeling so jaunty about the whole thing – the case was a disappointment and he hadn't delivered even half of his usual insults, but he didn't care. He buoyantly trotted downstairs, flagged down a cab and turned to John to make some nasty joke, but the doctor wasn't there.

Sherlock frowned; it was unlike John to stay behind once a case was finished. Ignoring the cabbie's irritated grumbles, the detective quickly returned to the building. He bumped into his friend at the foot of the stairs, nearly knocking the smaller man over.

"Here you are. What stopped you?" he said as John steadied himself.

"Oh, I was just trying to bully Greg into going for a beer or two with me tonight. It took some convincing."

Sherlock frowned. "Beer? You are still not fully recovered, you shouldn't drink."

The doctor chuckled, and began moving towards the door. "That's exactly what he said. But I'm fine, thank you very much, and I really have to go out."

"We are out. And who is Greg?"

John gave him a look, but didn't say anything.

* * *

_I hope you liked it. Now, don't let yourselves think it's over, as it is in fact far from it!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Again, thank you all for your support! Sorry this one is shorter again. Enjoy!_

* * *

A couple of hours later the doctor was beginning to regret his decision. He was already quite squiffy despite having drunk only two weak beers, and his chest was becoming a bit painful.

"And I'm telling you, she had the nerve to tell me it was all my fault!" Greg exclaimed opposite him in a slightly slurred voice. "Sometimes I wonder why I still even put up with her. She'll be the death of me, I swear... John, are you alright?"

John nodded stiffly as he rubbed his chest. "Yeah, 'm just still sore. Don't mind it," he mumbled.

He had to admit that it _was_ too early to just go out for a drink like that; he should have stayed at home and got himself a decent dose of sleep after giving his tired body a shock that was spending most of the day outside. The awareness that just a few years back it wouldn't have been a problem at all had a slightly bitter taste. God, he was getting old.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp twinge in his chest, and a second later he bent in half in his seat in a violent fit of coughing. His abused lungs rattled like those of an old consumptive, and he could literally feel bits of dense phlegm peel off and make their way into his throat.

He sensed Greg's hand on his arm and he tried to focus on his voice, but it was no use. When he was finally finished, he straightened with difficulty and leant back in his seat completely limp, and with his hand still clamped over his mouth. It took him a moment to register that Greg was still talking to him.

"Alright John, that's enough. I told you it was a stupid idea! Let's get you home before you faint or something," the DI said with concern, and helped the doctor up.

John didn't protest. He went to the loo to rinse his mouth and cool his neck, and then obediently allowed Greg to lead him outside and put him in a cab.

Dragging himself up the stairs to the flat proved more difficult than he expected; he even had to pause on the landing to catch his breath. To think that he let a bit of cough subdue him! He was certainly getting old.

Once he finally reached the flat, he was mildly surprised to see Sherlock in the living room. The man was sitting in his armchair with one ankle hooked over his knee, and it seemed that he hasn't been doing anything at all.

"Um, hi," John panted. "Are you waiting for someone?"

The detective regarded him critically.

"Not anymore."

"Wha-? You've been waiting for me? Why?"

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and got up in one, fluid move.

"Because," he started as he approached the tipsy doctor, "in spite of what you apparently think, I do occasionally worry about your well-being. Particularly when you don't care about it."

John stared at him vacantly.

"Oh, don't look at me like this. Your illness is an impediment to my work, so it's only natural that I want you back to your a bit more useful self as soon possible," Sherlock retorted, and almost grimaced at his own words. It was _not_ what he had on his mind. Fortunately, John seemed too bemused to take offense.

"Yeah, but still... 's a bit peculiar having you hover around me like that and telling me off for staying out late. Funny."

John rambled on, not even noticing when Sherlock removed his jacket and helped him take off his shoes. After getting a forceful push, the doctor slowly made his way to his room. He might have even said goodnight to his friend, but he honestly didn't know; he was so bloody tired that he could barely register any surroundings anymore.

When he sat on the edge of his bed and started considering whether trying to get undressed was worth the effort, he suddenly felt as if someone closed a vice on his skull and mercilessly crushed its contents. He pressed his hands to both sides of his head with a hiss and collapsed on the sheets, his vision darkening from the pain.

Great. A headache was all he needed.

.

John didn't get much sleep that night, or the following two. The headaches did not diminish; in fact they were getting stronger each day, and he was starting to worry. However, since he was generally feeling a lot better than earlier, and also because quite a few interesting cases popped out, he pushed the problem aside.

There was actually no sensible reason to suspect it was something serious – he had similar complications when he had been ill as a teenager, and they receded after a couple of weeks. He was planning to make a few tests anyway, just to make sure, but there was simply no time. Sherlock constantly nagged him to do something because it distracted both of them, and John kept putting it off.

And then, four days after the first headache, everything changed.

The moment he woke up, he knew it was going to be a horrible day. His head felt like his brain was being fried from the inside, and only after a double dose of aspirin was he even able to get up without clutching his head all the time. He wanted nothing more than going back to bed, but he'd already promised Sherlock to pick up some samples from Molly's lab.

The detective wasn't home. John briefly wondered if he had gone on a case without him, but quickly forgot about it when another nasty, wet cough clawed its way through his lungs. Cursing his life, he made himself tea, which he then angrily poured down the drain after scalding his sore throat with it.

He was still staring at the empty mug in his hand and trying to understand what the hell he's just done, when someone knocked on the door.

"John? Oh, you just got up, I see," Mrs Hudson greeted him with a warm smile. "I wanted to let you know I'll be out for a couple of hours, and I'm planning to drop by to Tesco's on my way back. Do you want me to buy you these cherry meringues you and Sherlock are so fond of?"

He blinked slowly. Why was it suddenly so hard to think?

"Mrs Hudson. Hello," he finally uttered. "I'm sorry, you asked me 'bout something. Could you repeat?"

She regarded him closely, and a small frown appeared on her face.

"I asked if you wanted me to buy you meringues. Are you okay?"

John rubbed his face. No, he was most definitely not okay.

"I'm fine, jus' a bit sleepy." He paused. "Oh, the meringues. Yeah, I would be grateful. Sherlock's been bugging me to get them for a while."

The old lady bit her lip. "Okay. Just take care of yourself, young man. Don't try to chase murderers in this state. See you later."

When she left, John collapsed in his chair heavily. He blinked hard a few times, but it wasn't the best of ideas; if anything, it only made his head hurt more. He touched his forehead with the back of his hand, and frowned. His temperature was definitely elevated.

He gathered himself with difficulty, and made a mental note to go to the hospital for additional tests right after bringing Sherlock's samples home. Oh, wait... St Bart's was a hospital. Yes. He could kill two birds with one stone.

During the cab ride he tried to catalogue his symptoms, but he was finding it really hard to focus on anything, and was too confused to be even seriously worried about it. He didn't even know when he got to Molly's lab.

"John, hello!" the young pathologist threw over her shoulder upon seeing him. There was an unusual clamour in the lab, which was probably why she didn't notice his condition right away.

The doctor entered the lab, trying to remember why he was there in the first place. Something Sherlock related, possibly.

"Oh right, fingers!" Molly answered the unasked question, and rushed towards the fridge, skirting between various boxes and equipment that were standing on the floor in all the wrong places. "I know Sherlock asked for ten right thumbs, but I only had eight. I added five left ones, I hope it'll do. I'm sorry, I'd love to chat, but we have a real hassle here!"

She stuffed the bag in John's hands, and then disappeared among the boxes before he could form a sentence. He stared at the bag for a moment before the woman re-emerged.

"Is there something else you need, John?" she asked uncertainly.

He flinched. Right, he should be going home now, or Sherlock was going to play hell.

"N-no. Thank you, and sorry. Bye."

He turned on his heel and quickly left the lab, wondering if he really said that, or if it was just in his own head. He thought he could hear Molly's voice behind him, but he didn't turn back. There was the feeling that he was supposed to do something, but he couldn't remember what. Everything around him seemed kind of quavery, like air during a hot day, and he didn't like it one bit. He needed to get out of there and go home.

He swam through the building, feeling more and more light-headed. Some unknown voices and noises kept falling into his head through one ear and falling out through the other, leaving disarray in their wake. When he exited the hospital, a wave of gray light enveloped him, and he almost swayed under its weight. Shielding his eyes, he walked up to the first cab in sight, scrambled inside, and almost incoherently mumbled his address. The cabbie asked him if he was alright, and John felt rather proud of how convincing his lie sounded. Sherlock must have really rubbed off on him.

When they were almost at Baker Street, John's head cleared a bit, but not enough to make him order the driver to turn around and go right back to the hospital. Once he paid, he all but jumped out the car and rushed upstairs on wobbly legs.

Yes, yes, something was definitely wrong. Why didn't he know what? He was a bloody doctor, for God's sake. He should know things.

He barely managed to enter the flat when suddenly stars erupted before his eyes, only to be replaced with total darkness the next second. Before he could even think of reaching for any support, John dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, completely senseless. Moments later, he began twitching violently.

* * *

_I hope the slightly odd construction of the second half of this chapter didn't throw you off. For my defense, it was intentional._

_Please, share your thoughts! Reviews are the best thing in the world. Pretty please? :D_


	5. Chapter 5

_Before reading this chapter you should know I have zero medical experience. I did some research, but if you know how these things really look like, you won't be fooled. Sorry about the inconsitencies._

_I hope you'll enjoy the read anyway. Once again, thank you very much for your support._

* * *

While the seizure took over the doctor's body, Sherlock was approaching Baker Street in another cab. Upon receiving a phone call from Molly about John's odd behaviour, he couldn't help feeling a bit concerned; he knew that the pathologist liked to blow things out of proportions, but after his three texts and two calls to his flatmate remained unanswered, he decided that ignoring the warning was not an option. Still, he was almost sure that John simply forgot to take his phone or turned it off again, and was in fact safe and sound at Baker Street, which was why _he_ was completely unprepared for what awaited him.

He was almost at the door to the flat, when he caught a glimpse of John's body sprawled on the floor in the threshold.

As stupid as the phrase was, in that moment Sherlock could've sworn that his stomach dropped down to his knees.

"Christ, John!" he exclaimed, throwing himself to his friend's side. For a second he was paralysed, but quickly gathered himself; he knew he had no right to panic.

He leant over the unconscious doctor, and briefly put his hand close to the parted lips before placing two fingers over the carotid artery. He breathed a small sigh of relief. After a quick check for any signs of violence and finding none, Sherlock placed his hand over the flushed, hot forehead.

"John? Can you hear me?" he spoke gently, patting the man's cheek with the other hand. "Come on, wake up."

It took John a good moment to begin responding. First it was just single moves and groans, but eventually he became a bit more coherent.

"Mhhm? Whats goin' on?" he muttered as his eyes darted over the room.

"You fainted." Much to Sherlock's annoyance, his voice was stupidly high, as was his heart rate. The awareness that John's loss of consciousness and his fever have been likely caused by the same inward factor was not helping him calm down at all.

"I- What? I fainted?"

"That's what I said."

John mumbled something and tried to lift himself, but the detective's hand held him in place firmly.

"No no, not so fast. You have to . . ."

Sherlock froze mid-sentence. It was only then that he noticed the floor around John's feet was marked with fresh, short smudges of rubber. Alarm bells rang in his head, and his heart started beating even harder. He looked at John sharply, just as the man put his hand to the back of his head and winced.

"Ow. Damn it, why does my head hurt so bad?"

The detective's insides made a revolting flip.

"Don't move," he commanded, reaching for his phone. "I'm calling the hospital. You've had a seizure, John."

The doctor did not respond.

Sherlock put the phone aside. "John?" he spoke with dry mouth, and extended his hand towards his friend's face, but before he could touch it, the doctor's whole body jerked sharply.

_Oh no._

"God damn it!" Sherlock cursed out loud as John twitched again. He frantically took his scarf off, and having grabbed the discarded phone, he skidded on his knees to sit behind his flatmate's head. He slid the rolled piece of fabric beneath it, and carefully placed his knees on both sides to prevent any further damage.

He dialled the number, and almost didn't recognise his own voice when he spoke.

"H-hello? I need you to send an ambulance to 221B Baker Street right now, my friend is having a seizure!" A pause, and more twitching. "Yes, right now, and it's the s-second one." Another pause. "No, he doesn't! I know what I'm talking about, stop wasting time and just send the ambulance for God's sake!"

The placating tone of the dispatcher did nothing to calm him down. He knew he sounded desperate and pitiful, but that was exactly how he felt.

Once he disconnected, he tossed the phone aside and looked down at John. The attack was slowly passing, but Sherlock was far from being relieved. He noticed with mild surprise that his left hand was supporting John's cheek; he didn't remember putting it there, but it couldn't possibly matter less now.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact a bit more than a minute, John finally ceased moving. Sherlock had to fight the desperate urge to wake him up, but he restrained himself, settling on checking the breathing again and delicately rolling his unconscious friend into recovery position.

Having completely no idea what to do next, he just sat there with one hand resting on John's arm. Hundreds of scenarios flashed through his brain at an alarming speed, starting from poisonings and ending on strokes and fatal brain tumours. How the hell had neither he nor John noticed the situation was so bad?

The worst thing was that all kinds of signs that something was off have actually been there all along. The headaches, the slow recovery, the lingering cough – all ended up dismissed by both of them because of The Work.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. Whatever the cause was, panicking was certainly not going to help, but hell, it was so bloody hard to remain calm.

.

About an hour later, the detective has already organised his thoughts enough to catalogue John's symptoms properly, and exclude some of his earlier suspicions; unfortunately, the ones that stayed weren't overly comforting.

Someone called his name, and he almost fell off his chair.

"Mr Holmes?" It was one of the nurses. "Your friend's awake now, and he'd like to see you." She motioned towards the room. Sherlock shot to his feet so fast he felt momentarily light-headed, and he was in the doorway in two strides.

John's head slowly turned in his direction.

"Sherlock," the doctor said tiredly, and leant back into the pillow with a sigh. "Good you're here. Great."

"Of course I'm here, you asked for me," Sherlock muttered as he made his way to John's bedside. He sat on a small chair next the bed, exhausted as if he's just run a mile. For a long moment, both men were silent.

It was all a tad overwhelming. Sherlock had seen a seizure attack before, but back then he didn't care much about the fact that the nameless person on the ground might bite their tongue off, or stop breathing and never wake again. It was nothing more than an interesting medical condition.

Now, it felt like the most important thing in the world. This was John Watson, and where he was concerned, Sherlock Holmes was incapable of remaining impassive. Witnessing the attack was bad enough, but he knew something worse was likely still ahead, and it scared him more than he dared to admit even to himself.

If Sherlock was scared, John was terrified. He could barely remember anything from the past two hours; there were some blurred flashes of his flatmate's face hovering above him, and also Molly among boxes, but he couldn't make heads or tails of it. He was however lucid enough to comprehend that he's just had two freaking seizures in a row, and even though as a doctor he knew that it was naive to draw conclusions before examination, he couldn't help it.

His confused brain kept showering him with more or less likely scenarios, some of them dire enough to nearly make him shiver. The more probable ones were not as horrific, but the intensity of the symptoms and the abrupt decline of his health were still very disconcerting at least.

A wet, stertorous cough put a brutal end to his musings. John involuntarily sat up and leant forward, seeing nothing but black for a moment, and he didn't even have the strength to fight it. He vaguely sensed a bit of a stir around himself, and once the fit ended, two pairs of hand gently laid him down on the bed.

"It's alright doctor Watson, we've got you. Please try to breathe calmly, and not inhale too deeply for now."

He made some sort of a noncommittal sound, and covered his face with his hands. Beads of sweat tickled his neck and temples, but he made no move to wipe them, afraid of triggering nausea. When he finally uncovered his face, his eyes remained shut, and stars were still dancing behind his eyelids.

Suddenly, something blissfully cool and soft dabbed at his forehead. He flinched instinctively, but the touch was so delicate that he began relaxing into it right away.

Sherlock observed in silence as the nurse gently cleaned sweat and tension away from John's face, and though he knew it was completely ridiculous of him, he felt an inexplicable pang of envy. Not of the act itself, God no, but of the woman's seemingly unforced and natural ability to ease his friend's pain with a simple touch, and because he knew he wouldn't be capable of doing that.

Since his eyes were glued to John, he was not aware that the nurse was casting him brief side glances, full of compassion and understanding. Had he seen it, he would have berated her for looking at him like that, and John would have said that it was not what it looked like.

"Alright," she finally spoke, drawing their eyes to herself. "Are you feeling a bit better, doctor?"

"Yes, a lot. Thank you, Ms . . . Foster," he said with a smile. It wasn't a lie; her hands were true marvels, and for a few blissful moments they allowed him to forget about the seriousness of the situation.

She smiled back. "Good. You two will have a few minutes for yourselves, I have to go and fetch doctor Russell. He's taking his time." Moments later she left, pulling the curtain behind herself.

Painfully aware of Sherlock's eyes piercing through his skull, John turned to face his flatmate.

"Don't look at me like that. I can't make more of this than you do," he muttered.

Sherlock cleared his constricted throat.

"Obviously you can't," he said, failing miserably in his attempt to sound calm. "But, given that you do have some actual medical competence, unlike many of _your kind_, I suppose that you have a relatively valid theory."

John sighed and turned away.

"Uh, I honestly don't know. I haven't been thinking too straight for the past hour. It can be a lot of things, though . . . I might have an idea, but there's a fair chance I'm wrong. We'll see."

"You think it's directly linked to your pneumonia," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, but complications like those I suspect are extremely rare, especially with healthy people. But if it _did_ happen somehow, it's possible I . . ."

The rest of John's sentence drowned in the sound of the door opening abruptly. The curtain was pulled away with more gentleness, and Sherlock and John were finally faced with doctor Russell.

He was a sturdy, tall man in his early forties. His blonde-ginger, dishevelled hair and rather pale complexion contrasted almost comically with the way he was built, and at a first glance John could have sworn that the man was thirty at most, as he had an air of specific enthusiasm about himself. There were, however, some distinct and familiar features to him that openly spoke of experience and the wearing commitment to his profession – his posture, the characteristic hue of the circles under his eyes, the lines carved in his face by the constant mixing of worry and polite smiles, and many others. Seeing a kindred spirit, John took an immediate liking to him.

"Hello doctor Watson, Mr Holmes," Russell greeted them both, tipping his head. "I'm sorry about the delay, it took me a while to claw my way to the tomograph."

"Oh, it's not a problem. It was just a few minutes," John answered.

"What are you going to do now?" Sherlock cut in unceremoniously, and motioned to John. "The tomograph is meant for him, I suppose?"

"Yes, indeed. I got your chart soon after your arrival, doctor Watson." Russell looked at the doctor seriously. "A double seizure, the first one in your life - that's something we need to look at right away. A nurse has already taken blood samples, I believe?"

John nodded and let out an abrupt, short cough.

"Ah, and we'll have to do an RTG scan as well, of course," doctor Russell added thoughtfully, and then frowned. "You really don't sound good, doctor, you must have noticed. Why did you ignore it?"

"I noticed, I really did," John said quickly, flushing a bit. "But I honestly had no time to check it." Yep, there it was – the worst excuse in the history of bad excuses. "I was even planning to make some more tests today, but it all went downhill real fast."

Russell's frown dissipated. "Ah, I understand. No one has time to take care of themselves these days - especially doctors. I guess I wouldn't have been any better. However, we can't put it off any longer."

Sherlock let out a loud, petulant huff, wondering how the hell could two bloody doctors do their equivalent of small talk under such circumstances.

"You are right, we can't," he almost growled before John could react. "So let's just get on with it, shall we?"

Doctor Russell looked at him uncertainly, but when he caught a glimpse of John's apologetic expression, his own softened.

"Of course, Mr Holmes. The tomograph should be ready in fifteen minutes." He turned to John again. "The radiologist and I decided to do the first one without a contrast agent, and repeat tomorrow with it if necessary. After the tomography we'll take you straight for an RTG scan."

The ginger doctor bit his lip, and took a deeper breath. "We'll do our best to figure it out as quickly as possible, but I can tell you already that whatever is causing your state, it certainly looks serious, and might not give up easily."

"I'm afraid so," John replied with no small amount of apprehension. There were many reasons to suspect things were going to get worse before getting better.

* * *

_Based on what I've read, I figured a double seizure isn't impossible._

_As always, I crave to know your thoughts. A word or two, hm? ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry this one is shorter again. It's rather uneventful and unrealistic, too. Also, Sherlock behaves like I think he wouldn't, but it was cool to write him like that._

_I should have mentioned it before, but here I go: there are two kinds of inner voices here, particularly when it comes to Sherlock. There's the more calculative one: '_thought', _and the more concealed, in italics. Just to let you know._

_I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!_

* * *

The tests took another two hours, during which Sherlock had to do something with himself. He spent almost the entire time in the waiting room, excavating the Internet and his own mind palace in search for answers. There were literally hundreds of options, and it annoyed the detective to no end that he wasn't capable of narrowing anything down yet.

Once it was all finally over, Sherlock and John again had a moment for themselves before the first results were to be discussed. Though John insisted that he didn't have to lay down, there was little choice since he was under observation. He was in the process of finding himself a more bearable position, when Sherlock's voice resounded beside him.

"So, how are you feeling now?" The deep baritone was unusually soft.

John grimaced. His head was still throbbing, and he suspected it was only going to get worse, but the headache itself was the least of his worries at the moment.

"Not bad," he sighed. "It's just... I'm a bit scared, to be honest." It was the understatement of the century, but the detective had the grace not to point it out.

"I know." _I am too, John, and not just a bit._

Silence fell between the two men again, and it was nothing like the usual, comfortable one they shared so often. It was thick with apprehension and unspoken words that lingered in the backs of their throats, demanding to be released, but neither spoke until doctor Russell entered the room with John's chart, multiple RTG photos in one hand, and a serious expression on his face.

"Well, doctor Watson," he started, not bothering to play the game of doctoring smiles. "I wish I could bring you better news."

John pursed his lips, and felt Sherlock tense beside him. Doctor Russell took a breath.

"Unfortunately, the tomography revealed the presence of two lesions – a bigger one in the left temporal lobe, and the other a few centimetres away, between the temporal and frontal. They are not very big, but the bigger one was likely the cause of the seizures. The nature of the lesions is yet to be determined, so we'll have to repeat the CT with contrast tomorrow."

Russell said it quickly and without unnecessary pauses, but the news seemed to hover in the room like a dark, ominous cloud, causing the air to thicken even further.

John clenched his jaw, and nodded shortly.

'Well, at least I know something,' he tried to console himself. It appeared that his suspicions might have been not so wrong after all, though he still couldn't wrap his head around the idea. It was very unlikely for a person like him – a healthy man in his prime, from a non-pathological environment to develop _that_ particular kind of disease he was thinking about. Admittedly, it was 'better' than brain cancer or a stroke.

He was lucky in his unawareness of the effect the news had on Sherlock. Upon hearing the words 'lesions in your brain', all logic vaporised from the detective's brilliant mind in a blink of an eye. Even though he had a vast knowledge of human anatomy and diseases, all the blackest scenarios returned with a bang that drowned out everything else for a short moment, during which Sherlock could only stare at his doctor and doctor Russell with wide eyes. When he found his voice again, it sounded horribly unlike him.

"So, um... what do you suspect has caused the lesions?" He wasn't sure if he was ready to hear the answer.

Doctor Russell looked at him, and then exchanged glances with John.

"Well, like I said – we'll have to do another CT tomorrow, but judging from what I've seen so far on the tomography and the RTG scans, and given doctor Watson's symptoms, I'd say we might be dealing with..."

"Abscesses," John finished, pinching the bridge of his nose against the returning headache. Sherlock's eyes snapped to him as doctor Russell sighed.

"Yes, which is really strange. We don't have many cases like this, and almost none of them concern people like you. If the CT with contrast confirms it, then I'm afraid that what brought you down before was no ordinary pneumonia. Your RTG scan is not looking good, either - there is a lot of consolidation areas in the lobes, and it looks as if it hasn't been treated at all."

Russell handed John the photos, which the ill doctor accepted with resignation. He lifted them up to the light to take a look, and an unpleasant weight formed in his stomach as he took in the details – his lungs looked almost as bad as two weeks earlier.

Sherlock snatched the photos from his hands, but John ignored him and turned back to the ginger doctor.

"I don't understand," he said, frustrated. "The antibiotics I've been prescribed seemed to be working, up until four days ago I'd been getting better."

Russell shook his head.

"I admit I don't get it either. We won't know for sure before examining your blood and sputum cultures. It's possible we'll have to make a lung biopsy, too, though maybe direct microscopic examination of the sputum will tell us something." His tone suggested that he wasn't very confident over the last sentence.

John's expression turned even more sour. What the hell could have caused all of this? What sort of bacteria or other abomination could be malignant enough to bring him down so quickly and brutally? The list may have been not very long, but it was impossible to exclude anything at this point, and given how fast the illness was progressing, it wasn't presaging a bright future.

Before more dark thoughts could be born, John gathered the little strength he had left and ordered the faltering soldier in himself to get a grip. He cast a side glance at Sherlock, seeking his friend's eyes, but the detective seemed to be far away.

"Alright," John addressed doctor Russell in a strained voice, and looked back at him. "Can you tell me more about the lesions? And what kind of antibiotics will I be given?" _How fast can you get these two little bastards out of my head?_

"Well, the smaller lesion is about...," Russell started, when Sherlock suddenly rose from his seat, stuck the photos in the doctor's hands, and then stormed out of the room without a word, slamming the door behind himself.

The ginger doctor stared at the door, but John just chucked.

"Don't mind him. He does a lot more bizarre things, it's nothing. He might return in five minutes or not show up for the next few days," he said in a light voice, though the last part had a slightly bitter taste when he realised he might be right.

Doctor Russell gave him a puzzled look but didn't ask any questions, for which John was thankful.

.

_What is it, what is it, what is it..._

There had to be something to latch on. There always was. He was arguably one of the best detectives in the world; surely it couldn't be too hard for him to deduce what sort of stupid germ was ravaging his best friend's body so fast that it apparently corrupted his brain three weeks after the symptoms began.

Yes, of course he could do it. He _had to_ do it. If only _his_ brain could stop showering him with images of John's body twitching on the floor and the words 'lesions in your brain' and 'abscesses'... _Oh, God_.

Sherlock stopped mid-stride. There was no way he could work like this.

'Calm down, you fool,' he snarled at himself inwardly. 'You'll be of no use if you don't start using your head properly. Think, think! Where, how and when he could've caught it? You must find the source.'

The detective collapsed on the nearest seat, and placed his fingertips on both sides of his head. Albeit with difficulty, moments later he cut himself off from the rest of the world as he once again descended into his mind palace.

Countless grainy images were strewn across the hall in chaos, almost completely covering the light, marble floor. They rustled beneath his feet when he walked over them, looking left and right in a naive hope of finding something by chance. Unable to form a coherent plan yet, he began picking the pictures up at random, and each time he looked at one, the image came to life as he recalled flashes of events and conversations that were not yet deleted, but which he had not considered important enough to neatly file away.

John spending hours between sick and snivelling people. John crawling a hundred feet through a muddy ditch. John not feeling well after dining at a new restaurant, John cutting his hand on a dirty wire, John taking a dip in a smelly pond, John...

Sherlock growled and threw the pictures on the ground, stirring a cloud of clipped sentences and single, meaningless words. They floated around him in a mock dance, before finally settling back on the scattered images like dust.

With so little information, there were way too many variables, too many possibilities.

He's just begun to organise the meagre data he had, when suddenly a shrill noise disrupted the fragile order, and he was abruptly drawn back towards reality. His eyes snapped open, and he angrily reached for his phone. He fought down the desire to hurl the device across the hall, and albeit with reluctance, he picked up.

"What do you want?" he barked at Lestrade sharply.

"Uh, hello," came a gruff reply. "Listen, I think I have something for you. We've been called to Regent's Park, where some kids made a rather nasty discovery, and I was hoping you..."

"No, I won't," Sherlock cut him off. "And don't call me, I don't have time for your nonsense."

The phone remained silent for a few seconds.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" the DI finally said.

Much to his own dismay, Sherlock let out an almost hysterical laugh.

"Yeah, everything's perfect, simply couldn't be better!"

Lestrade swallowed.

"What happened? Tell me where you are."

Instead of answering, Sherlock ostentatiously disconnected the call, and then proceeded to turn off the sound and stuff the offending device back into his pocket.

Once he regained control again, he decided that he had no choice but to remove himself from John's close vicinity. It was the only way he could think properly.

* * *

_As for brain abscesses - my research told me they are not that easy to identify, and are also rather uncommon. I doubt the doctors would have guessed it so quickly, but the simple truth is I wanted to make them clever. Sorry about the inconsistency._

_Would you mind leaving a few words? I know this chapter was far from exciting, but I'd be grateful :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Bro feels are scarce in this one, but more will appear in the next chapters, I promise. Also, it would help if you've seen 'The Thing' by John Carpenter, as it is mentioned here. If you haven't: Kurt Russell plays a guy who kills bad creatures with a flamethrower. The end :D_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but there's nothing I can do. The cultures need at least a few more days."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. _Of course _there was nothing she could do. Molly was good, but not good enough to make bacteria cultures grow faster without a risk of affecting the results. He knew he should be grateful that she obtained access to the samples before he even had to ask her to, but it wasn't like it changed much.

Molly observed him walk away and return to his microscope. Countless flasks, beakers and other sorts of laboratory glass and equipment surrounded his working place, but he was oblivious to the mess. He was a mess himself; for the last two days he's been working with almost no breaks, and the stress was taking a visible toll on him. She hated seeing him like this, and hated it even more that she couldn't help him – at least not in the way he expected her to.

She bit her lip and approached the detective with caution.

"Sherlock, perhaps you should take a break," she said softly. "I'm not saying you should go home, I know you won't, but maybe it would be better..."

"No, it wouldn't. I need to..."

"Please, just listen to me." That made him look at her. "You should go and see John. You basically haven't left the lab since you arrived, and he's just two floors above us. Go to him."

Sherlock's nostrils widened ever so slightly as he prayed to the god he did not believe in to grant him patience.

"Molly, I assure you he will be fine," he growled. "In spite of what you might think, he really does not appreciate having his hand held by me, or anybody else for that matter."

Molly crossed her arms. 'Here we go,' Sherlock thought grimly.

"I'm not talking about him. Well, actually I am too, but what I mean is that _you_ should see him. Stopping yourself from going to him when he's so close won't make you work any better, and you're being an idiot for thinking otherwise." She smirked a bit upon seeing his expression. "What? You didn't really think I don't know what you're doing, did you?"

He just kept staring at her. "I mean it, Sherlock. Go to John, even if just for a moment. You don't have to hold his hand."

Sherlock still didn't say a word, but Molly knew she had him. She would have gladly basked in the satisfaction of pulling the same trick on him again, if it wasn't for the circumstances.

The detective regarded her for a moment longer before tension finally left his shoulders. He _did_ want to see his friend (so much for removing himself from John's vicinity), but it was mainly because his vision was becoming blurry from exhaustion that he decided that a break perhaps was not such a bad idea.

A few minutes later he was in front of a vending machine, waiting for a styrofoam cup to fill with coffee-flavoured water. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he blinked a few times to get rid of the grittiness behind his eyelids.

Cup in hand, he sat on a nearby chair. He wasn't in a hurry at all; he wished to visit John, but he did _not _wish to have to face him and openly admit that he was no closer to finding a solution than two days before. He began sipping his coffee in silence, disinterestedly observing dust particles swirl in the hall as the bright light flowing through the windows gently slipped over them.

It was exactly that ridiculously common and dull sight that unlocked something in his head. His eyes and mind suddenly became clear, and the loose bits and pieces clicked together.

"... _we've just been informed that there might be something about our victim in a house on Everett's Street. It's close to where you guys live, so I thought that you might drop by and check it." _

_The house in a recently flooded area. The suspiciously smelling file._

"_I'll just leave that to John, surely he'll do."_

"_Complications like these are extremely rare, especially with healthy people."_

_John going there alone, already ill, filtering through countless files with bare hands and no mask._

"_Ah, it's dust. Better just tell me where I should look."_

The dust_. John inhaling clouds of post-flood, possibly heavily contaminated dust, with his immunity system already weakened._

_That could be it._

Sherlock snapped back to reality. Why the hell hadn't he thought of this earlier?! Why didn't John mention it when the doctors asked him about the possible sources of infection?

It appeared obvious that it must have happened _before_ the symptoms began; indeed, the initial one did occur like that, but nobody, not even Sherlock seriously entertained the possibility that something might have attacked John's system _after_ he had fallen ill. And though it could be literally anything, Sherlock was almost sure that he knew where to search.

He shot to his feet, binned the coffee, and stormed out of the hospital.

.

John's state didn't improve during the two days after the seizures. The second CT confirmed that the lesions were indeed abscesses, and it was clear the antibiotics were not working yet. The other medications he was being given managed to subdue the cough, the chest pain and the headache, but he kept losing energy fast.

He could not complain about lack of attention – Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg have all paid him visits, and he was very grateful, even if there were moments he wished they would just leave him alone. Sherlock visited him once, for no more than fifteen minutes, though John was aware of his constant presence in the hospital. He didn't really blame him, because he knew exactly what his flatmate was doing.

Unfortunately, no amount of visits and comforting smiles could diminish the fact that he was scared shitless. Still, he tried his best to put a brave face on, if only to spare his friends some worry.

Aside from being scared, he was also dreadfully bored. It was a pleasant surprise when doctor Russell dropped by at one point to see how he was doing. They had a nice chat that even managed to cheer John up a little. Only after a few of minutes of talking did he finally pay closer attention to the doctor's full name, and upon making a much belated observation, he couldn't help letting out a snicker.

"Ah, how come I haven't thought of this earlier," he said. "Your name is Curtis. Curtis Russell, almost like the actor. How often do people try to make 'The Thing' related jokes? Or 'Tango and Cash'?"

The ginger doctor cracked a small smile.

"Quite often, and about other movies too, but I don't mind. I've actually grown quite accustomed to the nickname 'Kurt'. And you wouldn't believe how useful it is for advertising! Once, my son made a graphic design of a cartoony me using a flamethrower on a gigantic bacteria, and when he put it on my website, the number of my private clients almost doubled."

John's loud guffaw quickly turned into a nasty wheeze.

"Sounds brilliant," he rasped in his hand.

Russell gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine, really. After all, laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?"

"You have no idea how often I wish it was," the ginger doctor said thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side.

A moment later there was a knock on the door, and a very tired looking Mrs Hudson entered the room. Both doctors turned to face her.

"Oh, hello. Am I interrupting?" she greeted, her eyes moving from one man to the other.

"Good afternoon and no, not at all. As a matter of fact, I was just leaving" Russell said quickly, and grabbed his clipboard for emphasis. "Have a good day!" Before John could say anything, Curtis sent him an understanding smile and left him alone with his landlady.

The moment the door closed, her facade of calm was discarded.

"Good gracious, John! And yesterday I thought you couldn't look any worse," she lamented as she approached his bed.

John shifted uncomfortably. "Hello, Mrs Hudson. Sit down, please."

She took the chair next to his bed, and let out a heavy sigh as her eyes travelled over his face. "My poor thing. Do they know what it is yet?"

"Well, nothing new since yesterday, I'm afraid, but these things always take a while." _And an even longer while when nobody has any sensible ideas. _"But don't worry, I'm sure they'll find out soon," he added before he could bite his tongue.

She frowned and looked him deep in the eye.

"Don't worry? Young man, I know you're hiding something from me, so don't you tell me I shouldn't worry. I can't force you to tell me, but don't treat me like an idiot."

"You're not, Mrs Hudson. I just don't want to upset you more."

She nodded solemnly. "So you are hiding something."

_Damn._

John didn't try to deny. He hadn't told her about the abscesses or even the seizures, and he had no intention of mentioning them if it wasn't necessary. The old lady really didn't need more reasons for worrying.

"Let's not talk about it, alright?" he tried to placate her, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion.

She seemed to consider his request for a moment.

"Alright. Sorry, I shouldn't stress you. It's just... I'm really scared for you, John. You were always such a healthy man, and all of sudden you're being hospitalised. This can't be normal." Her voice was leaden with concern, but her hand didn't quaver when she placed it over his.

"It isn't," John sighed. "But it's been just two days since I was brought here. There's plenty of time to figure it out. I'll be fine, really."

He didn't have to look at her to know she wasn't convinced. Hell, _he_ was far from convinced. The fact that almost none of his symptoms were relenting under the influence of antibiotics meant the general treatment wasn't enough to subdue the infection, and that in itself indicated that they were dealing with something uncommon and really serious - if the seizures were not enough of a proof already.

The silence was broken when the door opened again, and Molly Hooper appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, hi John, Mrs Hudson," she greeted them, but her smile quickly turned into a frown. "Is Sherlock here?"

"Oh, hello Molly. And here I thought you wanted to visit me as well!" John joked, making the young woman flush a little bit.

"I-I'm sorry John, I really wish I could come more often, but..."

"Relax, I was kidding," he chuckled huskily. "Wasn't he with you?"

Molly's jaw clenched. John exchanged a glance with Mrs Hudson.

"He was," the pathologist grumbled, and shook her head with disappointment. "I've told him to come to you, but of course he knew better. I should have followed him to make sure."

John's eyes widened. It was hard to imagine Molly bullying Sherlock into abandoning his work and doing something he probably didn't want to do, and yet the doctor didn't doubt her for a second.

"It's alright Molly, really. You know what he's like. Who knows, maybe he had an epiphany of some sort."

He had no idea just how right he was.

As John chatted with Molly and Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was becoming more and more convinced of his theory. There were still some things than needed further examination, but once he entered the basement where John had found the file, the detective was certain he hit the nail on the head. Except...

"You must have come down here together," he turned to the owner of the house who came to the basement with him. "Have you noticed any signs that you might be ill as of late?"

The woman shook her head. "Not at all, Mr Holmes. But truth is, I hardly ever come down here. The last time was with doctor Watson. The cops who came later didn't even want to see it, and it's been closed ever since. I know I should clean it up, but..."

Sherlock wasn't listening to her anymore; he had what he needed. There were plenty of microbes that attacked mostly people with weakened immune systems, or men rather than women, and it appeared that John was the only ill person who has entered the basement. That had to be it.

He didn't even notice when the woman finally stopped talking and left him alone. In a few seconds he deduced where exactly John had been standing when he inhaled the biggest portion of dust, and decided to begin there. He took the surroundings in, memorising every detail of the room; the foul smell, high temperature and humidity, the placement of shelves, the materials they and their contents were made of. All these and many other factors heavily indicated a microbiological contamination.

The detective knew he should wear a mask, but he doubted he was at serious risk, and even if he was, he couldn't really care less. He put his rubber gloves on, extracted scalpels and sterile containers, and started his work.

* * *

_See, the first chapter wasn't all that pointless! Also, sorry for the bad joke, I couldn't get the idea out of my head._

_I hope you liked it!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Heck, I see that people are rapidly losing interest in this story. It saddens me, though I guess I have nobody else to blame but myself. Anyway, I figured I'll try to bribe you with a double update today. Mind that there's a bunch of made-up medical facts and John and Sherlock being awkward in this chapter. _

_Anyone who's still reading this, enjoy!_

* * *

One would think that Sherlock Holmes finding a clue meant the case was over. Unfortunately, this was not just another case.

It took him and Molly over seven hours of non-stop work and browsing through a dozen books to find the most likely offender. Once they did, there was no exclamation of victory, and not just because they knew their findings could only serve as hints to what to look for once the 'official' cultures were grown enough.

Neither of them broke into a dramatic run through the hospital to announce the result to John and the doctors, but inside Sherlock's mind everything was astir. Perhaps they have got it wrong? It seemed almost absurdly unlikely that John would catch it in central London, but many things fit. Infection of an already weakened organism of a person in the risk group (age, gender), first attacking the lungs and then the brain, the ineffective antibiotic treatment. Unfortunately, there were also the unspecific symptoms, typical for great imitators.*

"Nocardiae," doctor Russell almost whispered when Sherlock and Molly presented him with their discovery. "How on earth- these infections hardly ever happen, and they always concern patients with AIDS, or..."

"This strain of Nocardia asteroides appears to be _very_ invasive, doctor Russell," Molly interjected. "I haven't seen one like that before."

The ginger doctor sighed and looked at the collection of petri dishes, full of colourful stains from various chemical reactions.

"Neither have I. Are you certain that..."

"Yes, we are," Sherlock snapped. "We have performed every test that can be performed on samples that don't come from a culture." _And I know damn well what that means._

Russell straightened his back, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at Sherlock and Molly apologetically.

"Miss Hooper, Mr Holmes. I can't express how grateful I am for this. You've saved us a lot of precious time, because now we finally know what to look for, but... I'm sure you understand that I _can't_ begin a new treatment before the cultures from direct samples from doctor Watson are thoroughly analysed."

The doctor glanced down. He didn't like it any better than them; if it was up to him, he would start acting immediately as there were so many indicators they were right. Unfortunately, there were procedures that could not be omitted.

Molly nodded, but Sherlock remained completely motionless. Russell continued hesitantly.

"We can't afford any risk at this stage, we have to be absolutely sure. And even when we are...," he trailed off.

There was no need to finish. All three of them were aware of the gravity of the situation, but neither Molly or Russell could even begin to understand what it was doing to Sherlock. Outside, he was rigid and cold like steel, but his mind was spinning out of control. The merciless truth that there was a fair chance John might actually die was the only thing he could think of.

Nocardiosis itself was a rare illness that attacked mainly immunosuppressed patients. Widespread infections like John's, ones that took over both the lungs and brain, were even more uncommon, and the illness had a tendency to develop rather slowly. Most important, however, was the prognosis. Pulmonary nocardiosis had a low death rate if treated, but with the disseminated form it was thirty percent at the very least, and could exceed ninety percent, even with the right treatment. And there it was – bringing down John Watson, a healthy man in his prime, in just three weeks.

Sherlock wanted to scream at life's injustice and absurdity, as if it could knock some sense into it. This couldn't be happening. Why the hell did it happen to John, of all people...

_Because sent him there_, a spiteful voice hissed in his head. _It was you who'd dragged him out of the house, and sent him into that germ hatchery._'

The detective's insides twisted. Even though he was well aware it wasn't actually his fault, the horrid notion of at least partial responsibility refused to go away. John could die, because he had listened to him.

Fingers clenched into fists so tight his knuckles went white and his nails dug deep into his palms, Sherlock got up.

"I have to tell him," he said. He dreaded it, but somehow couldn't bear the thought of someone else breaking the news. He felt it had to be him.

Molly nodded, but doctor Russell wasn't convinced.

"Are you certain, Mr Holmes? We can't be sure yet, perhaps it will be better to wait. Or maybe you want me to tell him?"

"No. I'll do it." Sherlock's tone left no room for arguing. He turned on his heel, and left.

The two-storey journey seemed paradoxically long and short at the same time. Each step he took seemed to extend to infinity, and yet Sherlock found himself in front of the door to John's room much faster than he wished.

The weak smile that appeared on John's face dissipated almost immediately when he saw his friend's grim expression. Even his besotted brain could comprehend what it meant.

"Shit," he stated. It was the first word he said to Sherlock in over a day.

"Yes."

"Is it that bad?"

Sherlock hesitated. "It's bad enough."

John gave him an expectant look. The detective cleared his throat.

"I've found the source, took samples and examined them with Molly. Though our findings have to be verified by official tests, we have concluded that it's highly probable that the cause of your state is an infection with Nocardia asteroides." He had no idea how he managed to make sound so calm.

John's eyes widened. First it was with surprise, but when he started sluggishly recalling details about the bacteria and connecting the dots, the surprise was replaced with fright.

_Disseminated nocardiosis. Oh God. How?_

He swallowed, trying hard not to let panic take over him. While the prognosis for the illness wasn't very comforting, it didn't mean he should be choosing a coffin already. But given how fast it was progressing, and that he already had not one but two abscesses...

_No. Calm down. He can't be sure._

_Yeah, right. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, when was the last time he was wrong? This early there's plenty of place for a mistake in diagnosis, but... bloody hell. _

The doctor rubbed his face, and determinedly fixed his eyes on a dirty spot on the wall opposite him.

"Right. So you think nocardiosis. Just great." He paused. It was becoming increasingly hard for him to think clearly. "How the hell could I've caught the bacteria? And where? You said you've found the source, what was it?"

"Dust."

John rolled his eyes. "Details, if you please."

"I mean the dust from the basement on Everett's Street, where you'd been three weeks ago. You were already ill then, and given that the whole damn place was a biological bomb, it's no surprise you ended up here." A tone of anger stole into the detective's voice, but it disappeared in a blink. "I've already arranged a thorough disinfection of the house, if you were wondering," he added quickly, addressing the floor more than John.

John sank even deeper into his sheets under the weight of the news. That was it, then – he has been beaten by a cloud of dust. There was no wonder why he hadn't even thought of that bloody basement when his doctor asked him about the possible source; it seemed just so ridiculous, but still...

"You haven't thought of it, because like everyone else, you've been searching for the cause in the wrong place – or rather time," Sherlock answered the unasked question, and looked at John intently. "That, and also because you have two abscesses in your brain, which have quite possibly tampered with your thinking process."

A humourless smile appeared on John's face. "Thanks for reminding me," he wheezed, still not looking at his flatmate. "Just tell me I wouldn't have figured it out before you anyway, you must be dying to point it out."

"Your words, not mine," the soft baritone purred, a smirk audible in it.

John closed his eyes. There were so many things he knew he could and should question, but truth was that he had neither the strength not the desire to do so at the moment; he had a hard enough time processing what he had already heard.

Admittedly, he still wasn't sure whether he should consider Sherlock's (and Molly's) diagnosis apt, as they simply didn't have all the necessary materials to confirm that it was indeed nocardiosis. John's experience on the medical field told him that if he had indeed been infected in the basement, then there was most certainly more than one kind of germs that inhabited it, and the fact that some of his symptoms seemed to suit those of nocardiosis did not mean it had to be it. The illness was hard to identify even when using the proper procedures.

However, it was Sherlock who said it, and despite his doubts, John was willing to bet his life that the clever bastard was right. Unfortunately, that didn't mean the right treatment could be started right away – it _had to _be officially confirmed. And for now, that was it. They had no choice but to wait.

Finally, John gathered himself and looked at his friend. Sherlock's hands were tightly clenched on his knees, and his whole posture openly said that the doctor wasn't the only one for whom the situation was difficult. Only after a closer observation did John notice just how much the last two days have worn his flatmate out; the usually impeccable clothes were wrinkled and mat, hair tangled from what John suspected was repetitive ruffling, and the bright eyes oddly dimmed. To put it gently, the detective looked like he could use some rest.

"Okay, Sherlock," John rasped, and winced at the sound of his own voice. The headache was returning. "I guess a huge thank you is in place. Can't say I'm delighted with the news, but... hey, look at me."

Sherlock did. Had John's state been any better, he might have been worried with what he saw in his face, and tried to console him somehow, but he couldn't find it in himself at the moment. All he managed was locking their eyes together briefly.

"Like I said. These aren't the happiest news, but bad news are better than no news at all. So thank you for this, really. I know it must have been damn hard to work it out." He paused to let that sink in. "You should go home now, get some sleep and eat something decent now that it's solved. Ask Lestrade for a case, I don't know. Or maybe do some experiments to occupy yourself. Just try not to blow the flat up."

Right after he finished, he clenched his jaw tightly, and had to fight not to shut his eyes. The headache was spiking up fast, and every uttered word made him feel as if his brain was about to erupt through his ears, but he needed to make sure Sherlock understood.

"Solved?" the detective snorted incredulously. "This isn't a case, John. And it's not _solved_ yet."

John raised an eyebrow. "Alright. Whatever you call it, there won't be much for you to do now, I suppose. So, um... you know."

"Do you want me to go?" Sherlock replied in a seemingly impassive voice that immediately told John that he was misunderstood. Or was he? He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.

"Well, not really. But I wouldn't be the most fascinating company; you'd get bored in no time. And you really need to sleep." Now that he thought of it, he decided he needed that as well.

Sherlock shifted in the chair and straightened his back to manifest that he wasn't tired at all, but his creaking joints gave him away. John looked at him pointedly.

"You can come tomorrow. If you'll want to," the doctor shrugged, and readjusted himself to a more comfortable position.

"I will," Sherlock murmured, and got up. "See you."

"Bye."

* * *

_*the great imitators - medical conditions that can be confused with other illnesses_

_Actually, I'm pretty sure that even Sherlock and Molly wouldn't be able to identify the bacteria without breeding it first. And even if they did, there really would be a lot of reasons to think it's not the thing that's causing John's state - this part wasn't made up. As for the doctor not wanting to take the risk - let's say the meds are too dangerous to afford that. I do believe, however, that the diagnosis would have to be official to try anyway._

_I hope you liked this chapter. I'd be delighted if you let me know if it was alright ;)_


	9. Chapter 9

_The construction of the first one third of this chapter might seem odd, but I hope it won't bother you too much. Also, I know I already said it, but it would help if you've seen the Thing. If not, just type 'The Thing head crab', and watch the video. It'll help settle the mood for the end of this chapter, but be warned - it's rather gross and disturbing.  
_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The front of Sherlock's precious shirt was covered with sticky, pinkish powder, but he was not in the mood for caring about manners. He wasn't in the mood for caring about anything but just one thing.

He angrily bit into yet another cherry meringue, and grimaced. He's already eaten almost the whole pack, and every next bite was making him hate the sugary taste more, but he couldn't stop himself. He despised himself for this little addiction, and now it was even harder for him to control himself.

He would have eaten the entire pack if it wasn't for Mrs Hudson's arrival. The mere scent wafting off of the plate she was carrying made him nauseous, and he quickly tossed the pack on the table, where it landed with an annoying rustle.

"Sherlock, dear? I brought you dinner. I insist that you eat before... what is this? Did you really eat _all_ the meringues?"

The detective huffed, not even granting the old lady with a look. "I don't know. Did I?"

She sighed, put the plate on the table and sat in John's chair.

"You need to stop this, young man. John asked me to make sure you eat properly, but you're not making it easy for me, and all I need is you getting ill as well." Sherlock knew she meant to sound firm, but she just couldn't pull it off.

"I'll be ill if I eat anything now, Mrs Hudson," he said in a softer voice, and looked at her this time. "I'm afraid dinner will have to wait." Straightening in his chair, he started wiping the sweet powder off.

The old woman bit her lip, but didn't persist. She just shuffled her feet on the floor and looked down at her hands, and Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable questions.

"Listen, dear," she started. "When will you finally tell me what's going on? Both you and John and even Molly are keeping me in the dark, and I know that you have figured it out already. Don't look at me like that, I know you long enough. I just wish you could tell me, even if it's something really bad."

.

"Doctor Russell? I think you should see this."

The ginger doctor rotated in his chair and glanced at the pictures in doctor Shance's hand.

"What have you got here, Clarice?"

"It's Mr John Watson's newest CT result. I compared it with the one from the day after his admission four days ago, and... there's a problem."

Russell's hand shot out for the photos.

.

"Oh good gracious, that's horrible! Why didn't you tell me?" Mrs Hudson lamented.

"This is exactly why," Sherlock replied, gesturing to all of her.

.

"Damn it. You're right – this one wasn't there before. And somehow, the first two grew fifty percent bigger in the span of four days." Russell shook his head in disbelief. His confidence was faltering at an alarming speed.

Doctor Shance was looking at him patiently.

"What about his lungs?" Russell asked after a short pause.

"No change, I'm afraid."

"And the cultures?"

"Mark says that he can start tomorrow at best. The tests will take at least a day, which is still less than it would be if we didn't know what to look for."

The ginger doctor grimaced. Situations like this made him hate his profession sometimes. The unavoidable procedures and the often way too long wait for results wasn't something mentioned in the movies.

"Alright. I hope that Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are right, because in two days I'm going to hook doctor Watson to trimethoprim with sulfamethoxazole whether the tests are done or not."

.

"Stop it. Please, stop crying. You promised you won't cry."

"I-I'm sorry. But see, that's what you get for keeping things from me! I would've taken it better if I knew from the beginning," the old lady cried.

Sherlock looked at her sceptically.

"No, you wouldn't." _I didn't._

.

"I'll go and tell him. He's a doctor himself, he should know."

And indeed, the news were soon delivered to John Watson, and though at that point he had difficulty comprehending what was being said to him, his first thought upon hearing the revelations was: 'I'm so fucked.'

The rate at which the old and new abscesses were growing was terrifying. The need to gradually increase the dosage of anticonvulsants and intracranial pressure-reducing medications was an indicator of that even before the confirming CT, but only after seeing the photos did it finally occur to John just how out of control the situation was.

As if that wasn't bad enough, there was literally no way to safely deal with the lesions. The antibiotics still weren't working, it was too early to start a new treatment, and too dangerous to drain the two older abscesses due to their location. Plus, it was apparent that his lungs were starting to give up as well.

He really was fucked. Even once the cause was finally going to be identified without any doubts, the illness has progressed very far already. Who could have predicted that something like that would happen to him, of all people? Not someone with AIDS, not someone from pathological environment, but him.

And so, John began to wonder.

Was it possible that... it has progressed _too_ far?

Was he going to be that one in a thousand instances described in medical journals? He's filtered through such himself, out of pure curiosity, but the idea _he_ might end up as a few sentences printed on paper was nauseating.

Even more dreadful was the awareness of what he would leave behind - or rather what he wouldn't leave. He had no illusions about his importance to the world, and while before he hadn't thought it could bother him, now he fearfully realised that if he was to die, his name would follow suit soon. Or would it?

'Don't be an idiot,' a familiar voice suddenly growled in his head, startling him.

John rubbed his face and felt even worse, if that was possible. The damn disease was really messing with his mind. Why the hell did he care that the rest of the world wouldn't remember him, if _his_ world was going to end? Not he would be the victim, but those few who actually did care whether he lived or died.

Some time later Sherlock appeared, and the doctor had no choice but to present him with the new information. The way the detective's face changed when he heard about the disease's progress was something John was going to remember till the end of his hopefully long life; the stony facade crumbled away, revealing so much unexpected vulnerability that John feared it might fall apart just from being looked at. It was that moment when any remaining doubts about whether Sherlock did or did not care as much as John thought disappeared.

He shifted a bit in his bed, desperately trying to get his frail body to obey him. His limbs were heavy and unresponsive, as if they no longer wanted to be a part of him. Finally he gave up, and sank back into the sheets with a pained sigh.

"Listen, Sherl'ck," he mumbled with difficulty, and gave his friend a moment to gather himself and look at him. "You're... you're aware this'sn't good news. Y' must... we must entertain 'very possibility now."

A shadow flashed through the tall man's pale face, followed by a deep frown.

"Don't say that. Don't even dare to think about it!" Sherlock snapped before he could stop himself. John gave him a look, but it came out rather weak.

"Be a realist, Sherlock. You know it _can_ happen." _As do I, and believe me, I don't like it any better than you._

The detective looked away.

"Stop it," he said distinctly, shaking his head. "Just stop, John. You're _not_ going to die, for God's sake. They have you under observation, and will be able to start the proper treatment in two days or even earlier, so stop overreacting. You're making me nervous." _Nervous! That's a laugh._

John fell silent as he tried to form another sentence, which was hard not only because of his slowed down thinking process.

"Y'know the prognosis, don't you?" he breathed. " 'tleast t-thirty percent with... disseminated, and more with..."

"Of course I know!" Sherlock cut in sharply, and all of sudden stared right into John's eyes with such intensity that he made the doctor want to shrink. "What do you expect me to say? That yes, I am aware you really might die?"

His voice, raised in volume and pitch rang in both men's ears for a moment, but the heavy silence that fell afterwards didn't last long.

"I've known from the beginning," the detective rumbled. "Every since I pieced everything together. But I _am_ a realist, John. I did all kinds of research possible, and each one told me the same thing – that you _can_ die, but also that there's a far greater chance that you won't." _Yes, John. Of course I'm scared._

John looked down, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Alright. You're right. 'course you are. I can be a drama queen s'metimes, too," he said with a brief, humourless smile.

After that, there wasn't much talking about the illness, or anything else for that matter. It took some time, but eventually the two friends managed to relax into each other's presence, even though the atmosphere was still tense with the unspoken.

Sherlock remained by John's side longer than during previous visits, and when he was about to leave, he even gave the doctor's arm a short, affectionate squeeze. There was nothing extraordinary about the gesture, but given the following events, one could consider it somewhat symbolic.

.

It was the middle of the night when the moment came. John was fast asleep and completely unaware of the surprise boiling inside his skull.

He didn't feel it. There was no significant change in his heart rate or oxygen saturation. He didn't even wake up. However, as the contents of the biggest abscess, the one located in his temporal lobe oozed through the fresh rupture and slowly diffused over his brain, the organ itself did react. Unable to produce a warning, it exploded with the oddest dream.

John jerked awake (or so he thought) in his own bed on Baker Street, panting as if he's just run a mile. He looked around the room; at first, everything seemed to be in place, but just when he was about to get off the bed, all of sudden the wallpaper on every wall started blackening, and then decaying and peeling off in huge chunks that disintegrated into dust as they hit the floor.

John sat on his bed completely frozen, until the disgusting stench of putrefaction hit his nostrils. A second later he shot to his feet and threw himself at the door, yanked it open and jumped out, with the corroded handle still in his hand. He tossed it away and turned to run downstairs, when he realised that he wasn't in the flat anymore.

It was a hall. A bright hall he knew he should recognise, but he couldn't remember anything. He twisted and pivoted, not knowing where to go, when a figure appeared out of nowhere in front of him. It was nobody else but doctor Russell himself, except that he was holding a huge flamethrower.

"I think that we should heat up things a little, John,"* the ginger doctor said lightly, lifting the deadly weapon and pointing it at something behind John's back. "What do you say?"

John said nothing, too dazed to think of an answer. Instead he just turned around, and nearly screamed at what he saw.

There it was – he recognised it from that twisted, disturbing movie. The head on spider-like legs was approaching him, screeching hellishly, but before he could take a look at its disfigured face, it was consumed by a ball of fire.

John took a few frantic steps back, but then tripped and hit the ground painfully. He scrambled to his feet, and darted down the hall without looking behind, but he could still sense the overwhelming heat of fire, as if it was coming from inside him. He rounded the corner at full speed, and barely avoided bumping right into Molly Hooper.

"Oh, here you are John!" she greeted him blandly, but her expression darkened the next second. "Where have you been? I don't like it when my patients wander off."

John's blood ran cold.

"Wh-what do you mean?" he squeaked.

Her pretty head tilted slightly. "Sherlock's waiting in the morgue. I promised to let him take whichever parts he'd want, but he insists on the brain only. Said he wants to figure out what offed you himself. Now..." She took a step forward and reached for his hand. "... you don't want to keep him waiting, do you?"

The doctor's heart hammered in his chest, threatening to leap out. As he began backing away, Molly and the hall disappeared in a thick, red haze, and John found himself in yet another place; this time, it was the pavement before 221B. Without any other ideas, he all but jumped into the building.

The moment he slammed the door shut, sounds of shouting reached him from above. His instinct told him not to go; he felt he didn't want to see what was upstairs, but some invisible force pushed him forward, and moments later he was already there.

Helpless, he watched as Sherlock hovered over his limp body sprawled on the floor. Watched as the detective - his best friend and self-proclaimed sociopath – tried to rouse him, calling his name in a panicked, unfamiliar voice. Watched in horror as his own body started tossing violently, red foam coming out of his mouth and nose.

A hand grabbed his arm, nearly making him jump out of his skin. Dressed all in funeral black, Mrs Hudson sent him a horrifyingly unfitting, beaming smile, and extracted a pink packet from behind her back.

"I've got your meringues, John. The cherry ones, your favourites," she said sweetly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to say.

His eyes closed against his will. He wanted to escape far away, but he couldn't move as incomprehensible whispers and yells shot past him like arrows, never touching him but making him freeze with fear. He would do everything, everything just to make it all stop...

For eternity he prayed and begged, and when he finally opened his eyes, blissful relief washed over him as he realised that he was surrounded by nothing but pitch-black darkness and silence.

* * *

_*that cliche was a line from the Thing_

_Well, the dream sequence was intended to be sort of funny and weird, but I'm not sure if it was any of that. I hope you liked this chapter. Leave a review, please :)_


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you all for your support! It's great to know that people are still enjoying this story :)_

_Again, Sherlock's quite OOC, but I felt it was necessary. Maybe I was wrong._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock's day began the same way as during the past week; he awoke early after a few hours of fitful sleep and lay motionlessly in his bed for some time, staring at the ceiling unseeingly. Finally he got up, wrapped himself in his red dressing gown and slowly shuffled towards the kitchen, where in a few minutes he prepared himself a slapdash breakfast consisting of a buttered toast and badly brewed tea. When he sat at the table, he was already bored half to death.

The silence was maddening. Sherlock hadn't suspected that John's absence for just five days could affect him so much, and yet here he was, gaping blankly at the all too big, empty space in front of him, and loathing every cubic inch of it.

_Except it isn't the fact that he's not here, is it? It's that he might never set his foot here again._

The slim hand tightened on the mug's handle.

"Shut up," he said aloud. 'He's strong, he will get through this.'

_How can you know that?_

Sherlock shook his head with a growl and took a massive swig of the still way too hot tea that scalded his throat horribly, but he welcomed the pain as it gave him something else to focus on. It was stupid and he knew it, though somehow it also felt very satisfying. He wasn't sure why.

With no small amount of strain, he slowly ate the toast and finished his tea, and was about to drag himself to the bathroom when his phone started ringing. He frowned when he saw the hospital number.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," came a serious sounding reply. "I'm calling from St Bart's hospital. Your... flatmate doctor Watson asked us to call you in case of any emergencies."

The detective's heart fluttered. He has indeed come into an agreement with John that the personnel was to call him if the need arose, but _only _if John himself couldn't make the call.

_Oh God._

"What happened?"

"Well, I'm afraid there were some unforeseen complications, and... doctor Watson didn't wake up today." Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. "Severe breathing problems appeared as well, and he'll probably have to be intubated. Tests are being ran as we speak, and soon we should know what exactly caused the changes, but I wanted to warn you."

Sherlock just stood there, trying his hardest not to panic, but his body refused to obey him. He desperately needed to know more, but the little reason that remained in his brain told him that it was the best to go straight to the hospital.

During the cab ride he kept telling himself over and over that there was a rather little chance that John was going to go just like that. Unfortunately, the risk that whatever caused the sudden deterioration could have severe long-term effects on the doctor's nervous system was not so little, and it terrified Sherlock no less than the possibility of losing his friend forever.

Finally, he arrived. With every step that brought him closer to John, he grew more anxious, but even so, he practically ran the last few metres to the room.

It wasn't the sight of John himself, but all the fuss around his bed that struck Sherlock the most. The nurse and the doctor who were hurriedly checking John's vitals and the machines he was hooked up to didn't even seem to notice his arrival. Sherlock took a tentative step forward, but somebody put a hand on his shoulder.

"Mr Holmes," doctor Russell addressed him gently. "May I have a word with you?"

Sherlock cast a pained look at his still friend. Then he glanced at the busy staff, gave a brief nod and followed the ginger doctor out of the room.

Russell closed the door, and when he turned to face Sherlock, he couldn't help feeling a wave compassion for the man. The detective had a very strong personality, but here he was, in no way less shaken than any other person whose loved one was in peril would be.

"What happened?" Sherlock didn't trust his voice enough to say more.

Something very worrisome flashed through the doctor's face.

"At this point we can't be entirely sure, but judging by the symptoms... I'm afraid there's been a rupture," he said gravely.

For the second time that day Sherlock forgot how to breathe. He suspected that a rupture might have been the problem, but until now he has desperately and naively hoped it wasn't.

A rupture of an abscess deep inside the brain was a catastrophe. Its contents, full of dead bacteria, leukocytes and many other things that should _never _have direct contact with the delicate organ, once released, were very likely to cause meningitis, ventriculitis or encephalitis, or other life- and neurological function-threatening inflammations. Now that the disaster happened, the diagnosis has become drastically worse.

Panic started claiming the detective for good. The bloody nightmare seemed to have used most of his supply of self-control, and he had to fight really hard not to lose the rest of it right now. Somehow, he managed to resurface from the darkness one more time, but as he recalled a few more facts about abscesses and complications, he realised that something wasn't right. He swallowed hard, slipped his protective mask back on and looked into doctor Russell's blue eyes.

"Was it the biggest one?" he asked, and Russell nodded. "Even so, that's not why he hasn't woken up yet, is it? It must have happened during the night or in the evening, so it's too early for severe symptoms of an inflammation."

If possible, doctor Russell's expression became even more distressing.

"I think so too. Technically, it _is_ possible that we're dealing with a very fast progressing inflammation, given how the illness has been developing so far, but I suspect something different." The doctor paused then, causing Sherlock to frown.

"What is it, then?"

"Your friend's intracranial pressure was heavily raised, as you're aware," Russell resumed, his voice very professional, and yet so sympathetic that Sherlock could hardly bear it. "I believe that the rupture has caused a sudden decrease of ICP. Sometimes, when such a drastic change happens, and particularly if other foreign sources of pressure are present... parts of the brain might translocate uncontrollably and get, so to speak, 'wedged' where they shouldn't be. It's called a brain herniation."

The doctor stopped then to wait for a reply, or any other reaction. His eyes ghosted over Sherlock's face uncertainly when he received none. "Have you ever heard of this condition, Mr Holmes?"

The detective answered with an almost imperceptible nod. Against all logic, he feared that if he moved more or made a sound, he might literally crumble.

Doctor Russell continued, genuine regret evident in his voice. "You must know that this an extremely dangerous complication. We'll know for sure if I'm right in half an hour, and if I am..."

Sherlock could not keep himself together this time. He looked away abruptly, feeling his body betray him once more. His usually hard expression gave place to a grimace that contorted his face in ways that caused him physical pain, snd then came the worst - the humiliating stinging behind his eyes and in his throat.

_Don't lose it, don't lose it..._

Russell waited patiently, without a word. Eventually Sherlock gathered himself and faced him again.

"What are you going to do about it? I assume you'll try to first deal with it via medication rather than any open brain surgeries." A pause. "_When _will you start administering the right antibiotics?"

It was the doctor's turn to look away, but Sherlock still caught his weird expression.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr Holmes," Russell sighed. "This case... nothing like it has happened to me before. Have I known that it was going to spiral out of control this fast, I would have started the nocardiosis treatment the moment you showed me your findings. I've never predicted such an outcome." His face darkened, and his eyes met Sherlock's again.

"I might get sacked for this, but I'll take the risk. I'm willing to start administering the medications right away." He held Sherlock's gaze. "If we're wrong, they will kill him, but if I don't do this, I'm afraid his fate might be sealed anyway. I'm sorry for putting it so bluntly, but it's true. As long as the infection is building, nothing else will have a lasting effect. So I want to ask you – do _you_ still want me to take this risk, knowing how it can end if we're mistaken?"

Sherlock took a step forward, standing uncomfortably close to the ginger doctor. Waves of contradictory feelings flooded him as he stared right into the man's soul - anger that he knew was horribly misplaced, a very faint sense of gratitude, utter desperation, and many others he was currently too moved to name.

"_I_ am _not_ mistaken," he said simply.

And that was it. Nothing more was needed. Doctor Russell only informed him about how long the examination was going to take, and then left to attend to his patient.

Once more, Sherlock had no choice but to wait. Left to the mercy of his own mind, he wandered the hospital halls like a dark, grim ghost, completely oblivious to the world around him as he went through various scenarios over and over again, trying to cope with what happened and to brace himself for what might be coming.

When he finally returned to reality, he realised that he was in the corridor leading to the morgue. He couldn't remember going there, but when it occurred to him, it was already too late. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, the vision of John being wheeled through that door, the door they have passed through together so many times, kept carving itself in his head and the more he fought it, the deeper and fiercer the cuts became.

The hated sensation behind his eyes returned. Sherlock felt weak, as if John's disease was draining strength from him now that there was so little left of it in his doctor. He staggered backwards until his back hit the wall, and he stood there for a moment, breathing hard. Eventually, even standing became too much. Hating every part of himself for yielding, he slowly slumped down the wall, and sat on the linoleum floor with a dull thump. Then he just stared blankly at the opposite wall, still not letting the tears flow.

Disseminated nocardiosis. Three fast-growing brain abscesses deep within the brain. Rupture of an abscess. Respiratory failure. Possible brain herniation. Prognosis for a full recovery...

_Ha. It will be a bloody miracle if he survives the next two days._

_Jesus Christ. No._

Sherlock drew his knees close to his body and rested his forehead on them. _How _the hell could have any of this happened? How was it possible that John Watson had talked with him about which TV programme they were going to watch just a week ago, and now was fighting for and losing his life so quickly?

No. _For_ once, 'how' was not the question. It was the pointless, sentimental 'why'.

Why, why did he send John to that stupid house? Why did that woman not clean it up? Why John had to be ill? _Why has it happened to him? Why has it happened to me?_

Sherlock might have known it had no sense to ask these as there were no answers, but his very much existent and currently aching heart refused to accept that knowledge. For yet another time in his life, he wished he really didn't have one.

He raised his head and looked across the empty, dull hall. His hazed eyes stopped on the spot before one of the windows. There they were - himself and his brother, standing side by side as they observed a mourning family through the glass door.

"Look at them. They all care so much," the younger version of him said, his deep voice echoing on the walls. "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

'I hate you so much, Mycroft,' the other Sherlock thought bitterly. 'Especially when you're right.'

Was he really the same person that was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette multiple feet away, right after finding out that someone he considered important was dead? If he was, then what happened to him?

'You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick,' a familiar voice laughed somewhere within him.

Sherlock shook his head and the apparitions disappeared, along with the voice he knew he might never hear again.

* * *

_Sorry about all the sentimental Sherlock. I like writing him like that, even though I know it's not really him. One can only wish._

_What did you think? I'd be grateful for a few words :)_


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you all for your lovely comments, favs and follows :) This chapter in meanly short, but I hope you'll like it. __Sorry in advance for making John and Sherlock say and do weird things. And for the feels. Would you mind leaving a comment after reading?_

* * *

The news spread fast. People whom Sherlock had no desire to talk with kept calling and texting him, expressing their compassion and offering support if he needed it. They were making him want to throw himself under a bus.

Some even had the nerve to come to the hospital and try to drag him out there, but it always ended in the same way - they left with hung heads, and he remained where he was, in the only place where he should be. Not even Mycroft's attempts had any effect.

John was still alive two days after the rupture. Sherlock supposed he should thank for that miracle but he didn't, because it was _not_ a miracle. It would be one if John woke up now, made a quick recovery that would surprise everyone, and the two of them could happily return to their 'normal' life, which the detective knew was unlikely to happen.

The incertitude after starting the nocardiosis treatment was hard to bear on the first day. Truth was that Sherlock _wasn't_ absolutely certain if he was right, and he was no less apprehensive about it than doctor Russell. Though it began working eventually, the bacteria's malignancy coerced the use of doses so high that the medications started becoming dangerous as well. On the second day, signs of ventriculitis appeared, and that was when the last, desperate spark of hope that it all could still be alright faded into nothingness, leaving Sherlock cold and hollow inside.

The meds fought the infection, but the damage was done. He was informed that it was going to take longer to treat because of the ventriculitis _if_ John survived, and also that the next night was going to be the deciding one.

Sherlock has never been so terrified in his life. For the last two days he's been living in some sort of a haze that reminisced a particularly long high, and now that it was crashing, the grim reality filled him with pain and powerlessness a thousand times worse than the strongest craving.

He knew that as his blogger's medical proxy he should call someone, inform John's friends and sister that it could be the doctor's last night, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. There were many reasons; one was that he was sure he would break down during the first call, another that he didn't want to have to deal with a group of snivelling, morose people who would talk nonsense to him when he wanted to be with his friend. He was aware that he was being selfish and that there could be consequences, but he didn't care.

The main reason, however, was that he believed that it was what John would want. They had more than once talked about a hypothetical situation like this one, and their view on the subject was quite similar.

"Just you. If you'll want to, of course" John had said, surprising the detective. "Don't let it become a friendly gathering. People say they want to say goodbye, but the truth is they can hardly ever do that. And as bad as it sounds, sometimes it really is better to present them with an accomplished fact, because then they can remember you rather than how you died." True, the confession had been heavily triggered by the freshly finished case and a few glasses of wine, but Sherlock memorised it – mainly because it wasn't something he would have expected from his faithful friend.

'What about me?' he wanted to scream into John's face now. Apparently, back then the doctor thought that Sherlock wouldn't be affected, but so much has changed. _Everything._

Hours passed, nurses and doctors came by, and Sherlock was still glued to John's bedside. For most of the time he was silent and motionless like a stone statue, but there were some odd moments when he had to fight a sudden, desperate urge to laugh at himself or cry.

"_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side." _

"_I don't have friends."_

"_This is your heart, and you should never let it rule you head."_

His own words. Or were they? He wasn't sure if he knew that man anymore.

The grey eyes returned to John. One would think that by now Sherlock should have got used to the sight of the plastic tube protruding from the doctor's mouth, but it never ceased to affect him, as did pretty much everything else in that place. The room itself, even more alien and impersonal than the previous one. The machines, the monitors, John's unnatural position, with hands flexed on his chest due to the herniation. John barely breathing on his own anymore. His closed eyes, his stillness. Him being there, closer now to death than life.

The detective buried his face in his hands. How was he supposed to deal with this? He still believed that John wasn't going to give up, but what if he was?

'It's simple. You would continue existing.'

He wanted to argue with the voice, but relented upon realising that was exactly what would happen. He was now inclined to agree with the stupidly sentimental quote that once you start seeing colours, you can't imagine your life without them – just like he couldn't imagine his without that dark, ocean blue, but he was also aware that he _would_ move on eventually. Their life would be no more, and it'd be a while before he could bring himself to calling the new realm a life, but he would have to one day.

Sherlock moved his chair closer to the bed to see John's face better. He wanted to make sure he didn't forget any details, just in case. He felt that perhaps he should say something, but he was genuinely at loss. They've never had to use many words, so why would he do it now?

Instead of speaking, he reached for John's hand. His pale, slender fingers delicately enveloped the doctor's wrist, until two of them rested over the pulse point. Sherlock had to apply some pressure to feel the agonisingly slow and faint heartbeat, but it was definitely there. With eyes closed, he sat like that for a few moments before releasing his friend.

.

He thought he was ready. He wasn't.

Around two in the morning he was woken up by a loud, beeping noise, and before he could even open his mouth to call for help, the room was flooded with people. Doctors yelled orders and nurses ran around the place, fetching what was necessary. Ignored by everyone, Sherlock backed against the wall, his eyes trained on the almost flat line on the heart monitor. Any remaining defence mechanisms he had died in that moment.

Unable to think clearly anymore, he staggered towards John.

"Please, you have to do something," he mumbled, all pride forgotten. "He's my friend, please don't let him..."

"Sir, you should wait outside," an unknown voice interrupted him, and someone grabbed him by the arms. "We'll do everything we can, but you must let us."

Sherlock had no power to try and protest. His tongue was torpid and useless, as were his limbs. The nurse led him out, said a few words that he didn't register, and returned to the room where John was losing the fight for his life. The detective took a shaky step forward, and placed his palm on the door's glass window. He could do nothing but stare as his best friend's body jerked under the defibrillator charges over and over again, arms falling limply to his sides each time he fell back on the bed. The doctors' calls mixed with the noise of machines, but Sherlock could only hear the blood roaring in his ears.

Minutes passed, every second dragging into eternity. The activity in the room slowly changed from swift and precise to more quiet and routine; someone was checking the monitors, someone else started collecting the tools. Finally, the lead doctor lifted John's eyelid, shone a light into his eye a few times, and then repeated it with the other one. He said something to the nurse standing next to him, and glanced at the watch on the wall.

Sherlock's knees buckled.

_No. Please, no...  
_

His hand slid off the glass. He didn't even try to reach for any support as he slumped until his knees hit the floor. All sound and movement ceased, leaving him in a void. It was over.

John appeared at his side. "Oh, someone should tell this bloke better than to do this so ostentatiously. It makes it even harder for those who're watching," the doctor said nervously as he glanced through the door. Then his eyes fell on his frozen friend.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" he asked in confusion. "What is it? Who's in there? Someone you knew?"

There was no reaction. John didn't know what to do, and he felt there was nothing he _could_ do. As he let his gaze sweep over the corridor, he had a strange thought that it was gradually becoming darker, but he wasn't sure if it was just a trick of light or his own mind. Something was telling him that he should just move along, and leave Sherlock be. His friend was going to be fine, like he always was in the end.


	12. Chapter 12

_Once again, thank you all for your support! I wish I could reply to every review, but I fear ANs aren't the place for that ;)_

_I'm not sure about this chapter. It's long, but feels a bit too concise for my liking. Unfortunately, I'd have to spend quite a bit of time on improving it, and I don't have much free time now. Also, in the last two days I slept less than six hours total, and I'm basically dying, so please forgive me. _

_Oh, and of course beware of medical bullshit galore. I tried, but it probably makes no sense. Sorry._

_Still, I hope you'll enjoy reading :) _

* * *

John started walking away when he caught it. It was one of the most heart-wrenching sounds he's heard in his life.

Sherlock Holmes was sobbing.

It wasn't loud or spectacular like in the movies; the sobs were barely audible, easy to miss if one didn't listen closely. The doctor froze in place, and that previous, strange desire to leave dissipated from his mind completely. He turned on his heel, and rushed to his friend's side.

Never before had he seen Sherlock like this, and God, he was hoping he wouldn't have to again. Hunched over like an old man, the detective was sitting on the ground with his legs tucked beneath him, face hidden in his hands as he wept quietly. He looked so horribly small.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John whispered, placing a hand on the trembling shoulder. Sherlock didn't respond, only began shaking more. At loss what to do, John got up and finally took a closer look at the patient.

His blood ran cold.

"Oh Christ. What the- ?"

Suddenly he wasn't standing next to Sherlock anymore, and found himself at the bed's foot, staring in horror at his own, bare-chested and very dead looking body. It was also when it hit him full-force that the reanimation procedure had been desisted from.

"No... what are you doing? Why did you stop?" he said weakly, dark eyes darting from one doctor to another. It had to be a horrible mistake. He did look gruesome, but it was still him, he was still there! How could they not see that?

"Don't do this! For God's sake, _I'm not dead_!"

It was the plain fear of death that made his voice raise, but it did so much more than that. There was no reaction from anyone for a moment, during which panic spiked in John higher than ever in his life, and then, when it seemed that everyone gave up on him, the steady wail of the heart monitor ceased, giving place to a short beep.

All heads in the room snapped up, and in a matter of seconds the stir started anew around his bed. John wanted to cry out with relief, but he was too shocked to produce a single sound, and could just watch in complete bewilderment as the doctors desperately fought to keep his heart beating, to provide him oxygen, to keep him among the living. It took some time and several injections, but eventually his readings began returning to slightly less cadaverous levels.

.

He has never felt so alone. For most of his life he'd been on his own, and loneliness hardly ever importuned him, but now it was crushing him without mercy, as if he was a pitiful insect.

John was gone. Killed by a cloud of dust.

Sherlock wanted to scream until his throat bled. The pathetic sobs that escaped him instead choked and burnt him like fire, but it was nothing compared to the dreadful cold that was spreading from his heart like poison, devouring all in its path.

Tears tickled his trembling hands as they slid between his fingers and rolled down his wrists. He no longer cared or even remembered someone could see him. The shattered mask was lying at his feet, useless and insignificant. The one person he allowed himself to grow so attached to wasn't there anymore, and with him gone was the light that Sherlock had never suspected he would need in his life so much.

Suddenly, something pierced the haze of sorrow. He wasn't even sure how he caught it, but there was no mistake – the room where his best friend died was filling with movement and agitation once more. The detective uncovered his face, gathered all the strength he could muster, and pushed himself to his feet.

The relief and joy he felt upon realising that John was brought back were inexpressible, and for a few moments he didn't remember about the illness, the prognosis or anything else other than the fact that his friend didn't leave him.

Swaying on his feet, he moved towards the nearest chair on which he then collapsed limply. He shut his stinging eyes and leant his head against the wall.

_He's not dead, he's not dead...  
_

His hand shot to his mouth. It took him a couple of minutes and letting out quite a few embarrassing noises to finally regain a bit of composure. Once he did, he felt utterly exhausted, but the relief was still there, in spite of the slowly returning logical reasoning.

A nurse emerged from the room. He listened to her and even said something himself, but he didn't care what it was. It couldn't possibly matter less.

.

Molly found out first, when she went to check on Sherlock before starting her new shift. She wasn't prepared for the information about John's cardiac arrest; she did know about the herniation but not about the ventriculitis, and it haunted her that Sherlock had to deal with it on his own. She was angry, too, both at him and herself, and his assurances that it was pointless to talk about it only fuelled her anger.

Before he could try to stop her, Molly called Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. The DI arrived first, and the old lady soon after him. Sherlock and Lestrade left her in the room with John, and went outside to wait in the hall.

"Honestly, you could've called! You should have," the DI grumbled nervously, shaking his head.

Sherlock avoided his eyes, and fixed his gaze on a dirty spot on the floor.

Lestrade bit his lip. "Sorry. But really, we could have helped you."

An snort escaped the young detective. "No."

"Well, we'd have tried, and now it's..." The policeman trailed off, and rubbed his forehead with frustration. The whole nasty business was affecting him a lot as well. "Do they know what it was? I mean, what exactly caused the..."

"Not yet," Sherlock interrupted. He was already growing annoyed with all the babbling, and being constantly reminded of what happened was not helping him to stay composed at all. He knew they meant well, but that didn't change the fact that he wished they could all just shut their mouths.

"Okay, okay. Just tell us when something turns up, will you? Sherlock?"

"Mhhm." _Don't count on it._

"Alright. Guess I'll have to find out myself, then."

The DI's hand then materialised on the younger man's shoulder. For a second Sherlock wanted to shake it off, but somehow the simple gesture felt far less irksome than he expected. It was definitely preferable to the all the talking.

"You don't have to do this alone, you hear me?" Lestrade said, patting him twice. "I've gotta go now, but I'll be in contact." He didn't respond, and the DI gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "It'll be alright. I'm sure he'll pull through."

Sherlock remained silent.

.

John's initial confusion diminished as he began recalling the latest events, but he still had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of being beside himself in such a literal sense. Time passed strangely in that state. His friends came and went, and each visit made him feel more and more dead, as the way they all looked at him reminisced him horribly of the last moments before closing a coffin. They talked, too, but their words were strained, the honest meaning dimmed by the audibly wavering hope. Had they known that he could hear them, they would have probably tried harder to conceal it. It was doctor Russell who gave it away, three days after John's cardiac arrest.

The man entered the room quietly, with a cautious expression on his face. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge his arrival.

"Mr Holmes? I've got some news for you."

That made Sherlock look at him. "What sort of news?"

"Better than worse, actually," Russell replied with a brief smile. "As you already know, during John's... doctor Watson's reanimation, one of the remaining abscesses ruptured. But though we initially suspected it was going to significantly worsen his state, it seems that... it has actually helped him in a way."

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow. That didn't make any sense.

"I know how it sounds," the doctor added quickly. "But as it is, the rupture caused another decrease of intracranial pressure like the first one did, except this time the change apparently enabled the wedged part of brain to return to its correct position. We weren't sure at first, but now there's no doubt. The herniation has receded."

If Sherlock was anybody else, he might have jumped to his feet and cried out with joy. Instead, he only looked at the doctor intently, his eyes glowing with the demand to be told _everything_.

"But?" he said shortly.

Doctor Russell's shoulders hunched ever so slightly.

"But," the man sighed, "it also became apparent that some damage has been done. We'd been hoping that once the pressure decreased, the symptoms would begin diminishing. Well, some of them did, but his body had to deal with much more than the herniation. The infection itself, and then the ventriculitis _together_ with the herniation... that's a combination not many would even live through, and I'm afraid complications are practically inevitable."

Sherlock's jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt. He looked at John, taking note of how his colour was very slowly improving. The intensive treatment was starting to show effects, but it didn't seem like the doctor was any closer to awaking than he was three days before.

The thought filled him with utter despise for himself, but Sherlock couldn't help hoping that John wouldn't wake up in the nearest time. It baffled him how much he wanted to see those dark blue eyes again, but the vision of them looking back vacantly and without recognition was a prospect so nauseating that he still couldn't get over it. He needed time to accept the fact that if John woke up again, he might never be the same.

The doctor continued.

"As we were dealing with an uncal herniation, the brainstem has been affected to some extent, though not to one as grave as we initially thought."

Sherlock cringed. Any sort of brainstem damage, even if reversible, was more than a bit not good.

"Then why did his heart stop?" he almost growled.

"Ah, yes," Russell said seriously. "The neurologist and I came up with the conclusion that the wedged part of the brain at one point must have temporarily blocked the oxygen supply to most of the brainstem. The cardiovascular centre is located in the lower part of the brainstem, where the pressure wasn't as high, but it was enough to cause ischemic hypoxia, followed by the cardiac arrest. This is why the second rupture might have saved your friend's life – it allowed the wedged uncus to shift back to its right position, and enable blood supply again."

The detective looked away, fighting the returning tightness in his chest. To know just how close a call John had, and how it was in fact a lucky coincidence that he still had a chance for a recovery was difficult to take in. Still, Sherlock felt gratitude towards doctor Russell for not trying to coddle him, and simply presenting him with the truth as it was. It was a welcome change from how the man had been treating him before, and how his friends were treating him currently.

"Do you...," he started, but had to pause to clear his throat. "Do you know when he'll start waking up?"

The ginger doctor scratched his brow. "It's hard to say. The brainstem also controls consciousness and sleep cycles, so... for some time he might not be able to."

Sherlock frowned at the odd choice of words.

"What do you mean, he might not be _able_ to?"

"Well, that's actually a part of the good news. We've done plenty of tests of his brain activity, and though some of the results are worrisome, others are surprisingly promising."

A bit of light returned to the detective's eyes.

"Yes?" he asked, unable to keep hope out of his voice.

Doctor Russell rubbed his hands together, and walked up to John's bed.

"There's a fair chance that he might hear us. It doesn't show on the monitors here, but from what we've seen during the brain examinations, it seems that he might be perceiving quite a lot of his surroundings for a coma patient. Basically, his mind is awake, but his body just doesn't know it."

John smiled to himself wryly. He was glad someone finallyunderstood his situation, and even more so that the doctor, despite suspecting John could hear him, revealed the information about his condition in his presence. Granted, it was rather scary, but he preferred to know anyway, and realising how lucky he was to be alive gave him a bit more strength - as did the awareness that perhaps Sherlock was going to speak to him at last. Every since his momentary clinical death, the detective hasn't said a single word to him directly.

The doctor looked at his friend, wondering what on earth must be going on in the man's head. The odd state of suspension between sleep and awareness clouded his assessment of the more complex aspects of reality, but it wasn't hard to see that Sherlock was a lot more affected than he let on.

Russell then asked Sherlock outside, and that worried John a bit. Apparently, whatever Curtis wanted to add was something that he decided the patient shouldn't hear.

Left alone with himself, John started musing over his fate again, and like so many times before, deep frustration filled him when he looked at his own body. After three days he still couldn't get used to the sight of it lying in that bed, and not looking even remotely like it should. The weeks of illness have discoloured his skin and changed his face, and together with all the tubes and wires attached to him they were making him appear so unfamiliar that his own mind had difficulty recognising that body as his own.

John tore his eyes away from the grotesque sight. How the hell was he supposed to get out of this? No matter how hard he tried or how much his friends begged, he simply couldn't find his way back, and the fear that he never will was paralysing. On the other side, however, there was a no less dreadful question: what if he does wake up? John was aware that his current inability to wake was just one of the things wrong with his body, and he wasn't sure if wanted to face the rest of them anymore. Perhaps it was better to just stay asleep.

He shook his head abruptly, startled by the thought. He had no right to think like that; it wasn't just about him, after all. If the heartbroken Mrs Hudson wasn't enough of a reason to keep fighting, the common denominator of basically all the monologues he's heard in the past three days definitely was one.

"_Please, dear. If not for me, do it for him. He needs you," Mrs Hudson cried as she held his hand._

"_Listen, John... it'll sound awfully like blackmail, but you can't j-just give up. If you do... it will destroy him." The young pathologist tried so much to be brave._

"_Eh, John. What have you got you yourself into?" Greg sighed, shaking his head morosely. "Don't even dare to think about letting go, you hear me? You're too damn young, for God's sake. You survived Afghanistan, you survived Sherlock Holmes. Made the bastard better than I'd imagined. Don't let it waste. Fight, mate."_

Yes. Sherlock was _the_ reason. John had no illusions that his eventual recovery would be an easy one full of affectionate hugs and pats on the back, but it didn't matter. He simply couldn't leave his best friend behind. Going back was the only sensible solution. If only he knew how to do it.

Eventually, the detective returned to the room, alone. He approached his unconscious friend cautiously, trying not to think about all the dark possibilities doctor Russell has just presented him with. For the umpteenth time, he took the seat next to John's bed, and for a few moments just observed him in silence. Then he moved a bit closer, and though there was no-one else in the room, he glanced over his shoulder uncertainly.

"Hell. What am I even doing?" he growled at himself. His eyes returned to his flatmate. "John?"

The doctor's heart beat faster – or rather it would, if the body acknowledged the mind's reaction.

Sherlock looked away awkwardly. "So, your doctor said you can hear."

"Yes," John whispered, hoping against hope he'll be heard.

"Frankly, I think he just said that to make me talk to you. You know, for my own good," Sherlock said with a sneer, and straightened in his chair a bit.

John threw his head back and breathed an irritated sigh. 'Same old Sherlock,' he thought. He supposed that he preferred him like that rather than the way he was before, though.

"But if you do hear me, then listen closely," the detective continued, a darker tone audible in his voice. "I _forbid_ you to die, John Watson. I'm not _asking_ you, because you clearly ignore all requests. I need you to stop this farce right now. If you die, I'll be very..." A pause. "d-disappointed."

The way the deep voice broke over the last word nearly caused John to break as well. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock said that because he thought that he could hear him, or because he couldn't.

"See? It's all because of you," Sherlock grumbled after collecting himself. "You've made me soft and... _sentimental_. Don't even think about leaving me to deal with this on my own."

John grimaced. He would do _everything _to go back, or to give some sign that he was still there, but it was out of his reach for now. He had no choice but to watch helplessly as his friend struggled to keep it together.

* * *

_There. Sherlock not really behaving like I'd expect him to, scenes and lines that seem totally random. Sorry about the mess. Of course I'd be grateful for comments, even if berating ones. Maybe they'd help me fix it._


	13. Chapter 13

_Beware, half of this chapter borders on crack, and doesn't make much sense. I just wanted to add something lighter after the previous three updates. Also, know that there will be only one more chapter after this one. This story is already 100% longer than I had intended._

_Enjoy the silliness!_

* * *

Five more days passed, and John still didn't wake up. His body was slowly overcoming the infection, and the ventilator didn't have to breathe for him anymore, but he remained comatose, and nothing suggested that it was going to change anytime soon.

At that point, Sherlock was this far from going mad. Constant, incessant fear consumed his thoughts, making it impossible for him to sleep or focus. Each day dragged horribly, and the fact that the more time passed the smaller became John's chance for awakening was making the wait simply unbearable.

The detective sipped his morning tea in silence as he once again contemplated his future. _Their_ future, if they were lucky.

Was John going to be disabled for the rest of his life? Was he going to be unable to return to the life they had been leaing before the damn disease struck? Was he still going to be the John Watson Sherlock knew and cared about more than he ever suspected he would?

'Be a realist, Sherlock,' John's voice in his head chided him again. 'Things will change, and unlikely for better.'

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He _was_ aware it wasn't going to be an easy road. Doctor Russell's earlier descriptions of the likely complications were already bad enough, and no-one knew the real damage yet; John had to wake up first. The detective tried many things to drag his friend out of wherever he was - he talked to him, sat by his side, read for him, not to mention occasionally taking the doctor's hand in his own, just to see if it could elicit some sort of reaction. Unfortunately, it was all for nothing.

He stood up, poured the now cold tea down the drain, and having wrapped himself tighter in his red dressing gown, he walked up to the window where the violin stand was. He lifted the cherished instrument from its case, and delicately ran his long, slender fingers over the varnished surface of the wood.

In spite of all the hardship, music came to him easily. At first, the bow ghosted over the strings soundlessly, but once the first notes were drawn, more quickly followed suit. With time, the improvised melody began getting deeper and more nostalgic as the unspoken words poured out of Sherlock like ofan overflowing bottle.

'This is for you, John Watson,' the violin sang. 'Look what happens when you're not here. I need you to come back, to yell at me to shut up. I need _you_.'

The pleas remained unanswered. The bow's dance became rapid, frantic even, and the song soon turned into a cacophony of earsplitting screeches that no longer reminisced music. Sherlock abused the instrument until his hand slipped, and one of the strings cut painfully into his thumb. The bow slid from his grip and fell to the ground as he hissed in surprise.

He sucked on the cut, tasting a bit of blood on his tongue. The surprise changed into annoyance at his own clumsiness, but that quickly became a general rage at himself, dirty basements, brain infections and pretty much the rest of the world.

He dropped the violin back into its case before the desire to throw it through the window could spiral out of control, and then he flopped roughly on the sofa.

There _had to_ be a way. There was always one. Why would this be any different?

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. He looked across the room at the violin and at his cut, throbbing finger. Interestingly enough, his heartbeat was still elevated from the small outburst, where before it had been so dull that he almost forgot he had it.

And so, a desperate idea was born. Maybe, just maybe, if he did something that could trigger John's anger rather than trying to beg him, the doctor would finally respond. With a nefarious plan already brewing in his head, Sherlock quickly got dressed and caught a cab to the hospital. He was sure that anyone who'd find out would call him bonkers, but he didn't care. It was worth a try.

After getting rid of the nurses in John's room and making sure no-one would disturb him, he approached his friend, but instead of taking the chair as usual he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Hello, John," he purred. John looked up from his spot on the other side, immediately knowing he was up to something. "Still hiding out there, huh?"

The doctor frowned. He didn't like the way Sherlock was looking at him.

"I'm not _hiding_, Sherlock. I've told you already, I don't know _how_ to go back," he grumbled despite knowing his flatmate couldn't hear him.

"Well, I think I might have just found a way to get you out. You're not going to like it." The detective changed his position so that he was sitting at John's hip level. "For your consolation neither am I, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

John swallowed, feeling more and more uncomfortable as Sherlock leant down until his face was maybe half a foot above his own.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, standing up. To his dismay, Sherlock placed his hands on his shoulders, and lowered himself on his elbows until they rested on John's chest. The quicksilver eyes travelled over his face for a moment before the detective spoke again, his voice a low rumble.

"You know, you're starting to annoy me. It's time to make up your mind. You are either going to give me a sign of some sort, or I solemnly swear, I _will _kiss you, and then tell _everyone_ you know. And if that doesn't work, I'll take a picture and put in on your blog."

John's jaw dropped to the floor. That little son of a bitch!

"Don't you dare!" he thundered in outrage. "You'll _not _be molesting me in my sleep! And you can't just blackmail people in coma!"

Of course Sherlock didn't hear him, and since there was still no change on the monitors, it was clear he wasn't going to relent. He took John's breathing mask off his face and then leant in even closer, until a few loose curls spread over the doctor's forehead, and their noses almost touched.

"Don't you test me. This is your last chance, John Watson," he uttered.

For a fraction of a second, John could swear he _felt _the detective's hot breath on his face, and he wanted nothing more than to wrench away from it. Not able to move his body or push Sherlock off, he leant over the obnoxious man's ear, and at the top of his lungs he yelled:

"Get off my body, you mad bastard!"

Again, Sherlock didn't hear his voice, but they bothheard something else. The previously regular and slow beeping of the heart monitor accelerated all of sudden, as did the readings on the other machines.

Their heads snapped up. It all lasted just a few seconds, but during that time John's anger dissipated without a trace. He didn't think he could feel any more euphoric, when he heard Sherlock laugh; it was a sound that he had been missing in particular, and its vibrant, sonorous depth caused his actual heart to beat harder again.

"I knew it!" the detective exclaimed to himself shakily, not believing what just happened. His hands clenched tighter on John's shoulders, and for one terrible second the doctor thought his mad flatmate might really kiss him. Luckily, Sherlock lifted himself, but his hands stayed where they were.

"That was easier than I thought," he chuckled, replacing the mask carefully. "Oh, had I known it'd take something so petty, I would have done this ages ago!"

John snorted indignantly, but then laughed despite himself. "Sure you would. You'd never miss the opportunity to embarrass me, would you?"

He wanted to be angry, but there was no point. Sherlock's stupid little stunt did what no medication, tears or commands could do; John's body's reaction was not only a proof to the outside world, but also to the doctor himself, because now he finally believed that there was indeed a way.

_Trust Sherlock Holmes to annoy you back to life._

.

"How did you do it, though?" DI Lestrade asked him for the nth time. "His doctor told me there were no indicators that he'd be waking anytime soon, but after your visit... well. You know."

A very brief smirk appeared on Sherlock's face as he skimmed through the files strewn across his coffee table.

"I didn't do anything," he muttered.

"Oh really? Come on, what was it? Did you tell him something?"

Sherlock looked into the policeman's curious eyes.

"Yes, I did. Once he finally does wake up, you can ask him. It's none of your business, though."

Lestrade nodded quietly, and took a sip of his tea. They resumed their work on the files from the DI's latest case - the first one Sherlock agreed to take since John's hospitalisation, but the younger detective knew it was only a matter of time until more questions surfaced.

After the news about John's progress towards regaining consciousness spread, pretty much everyone interested was ecstatic. The previous anger at Sherlock for not letting them know just how close the doctor had been to dying quieted down when they found out that apparently thanks to _something _he did, John began slowly waking up. Two days after the desperate act John still was asleep, but the doctors claimed it wouldn't be long.

It was all great, except that it meant having to face the real damage soon. Like all of John's friends, Sherlock was waiting for the awakening, but he also dreaded it. He was already more or less prepared, but only theoretically.

Lestrade shifted on the couch again, and Sherlock couldn't take anymore.

"What?" he snapped.

"I didn't say anything."

"What else do you want to know? I've told you everything."

"It's not that," the DI assured. "I just... I mean, I wanted to congratulate you. And thank you."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

Lestrade set his cup aside, and regarded him closely.

"About what you did for him, and I don't mean just figuring out what got him. You were at his side all this time, and call me sentimental, but I think that's what kept him going."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You _are _sentimental."

"Fine, I am," the DI shrugged. "I don't have to prove anything to you anyway, you know it best. But I mean what I said." Sherlock opened his mouth, but Lestrade didn't let him interrupt. "The presence of someone close _really_ helps, I know it from experience. And whatever it was that you told him... I'm proud of you."

As Sherlock listened, he became more and more confused. When Lestrade finished, he didn't say a word and just looked away, frowning as he tried to figure out what the policeman meant by the 'I'm proud of you'. It really sounded like praise for what exactly he did to get John to react. The DI couldn't have known about his little trick, and if he did, he would have certainly not commended it, so what was it about? Surely he didn't think that Sherlock had made some sort of a love declaration at his friend's bedside.

_Oh. But he does, doesn't he?_

The bright eyes widened at the realisation, and Sherlock barely withheld a laugh.

"Detective Inspector, you're a grown man. Romanticisation doesn't become you," he sneered.

"Okay, whatever, don't tell me if you don't want to. The fact remains that it was you who gave him the push he needed. Call me an idiot, but I'm not blind, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that and just resumed his work, but after Lestrade left, he began pondering the DI's deduction, which - albeit incorrect - has awakened really peculiar thoughts. Apparently, Lestrade (and other people too, probably) thought he had indeed said or done something heart-moving rather than annoying, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that. They've known him for years, so what on earth could have made them think so?

Was he really that obvious? He thought that he's been doing a pretty decent job at concealing his feelings about the whole illness business, but perhaps he should have given his friends more credit. Besides, he had spent a few days glued to his blogger's bedside, which was probably telling enough in itself, even though no-one ever caught him getting emotional over John's body. Still, he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that people who knew what a callous bastard he could be assumed that he did something like that.

The answer was hidden in plain sight, of course. It took Sherlock an embarrassingly long while, but eventually he had to accept that all of this has been caused by no-one else but John Watson.

The chain reaction that started when Sherlock realised he's found the best companion he could have ever hoped for led to him becoming not only wont, but also attached to the doctor so much that it sometimes scared him, as he had no control over it. It was plain as day to other people who knew him before. John did things to his mind that the genius had a hard time comprehending, but as frustrating as it was, he couldn't say he hated it. Indeed, being a part of such a well-working unit felt great, even though Sherlock thought he had been doing just fine before John. Unfortunately, the attachment had its obvious downsides, and the illness was the only one of the proofs. It made the detective vulnerable, and that was something he loathed with passion.

'Quid pro quo,' he thought bitterly. 'That's what you get for letting your guard down.'

_Why not tell him, though? Others did, so why not you?_

Sherlock frowned at that other internal voice. It has been resurfacing in his head annoyingly often as of late, especially when he had too much time to think.

'Whatever for?' he snapped back.

_Oh, I don't know. I am you, no matter how hard you try to deny it, so it was you who thought about it. Am I wrong?_

He shifted uncomfortably. Who was he kidding? The latest events made him realise many new, unexpected things about himself, and he knew he would have to face them soon, whether he liked it or not.

* * *

_It's called love, Sherlock. Seriously though, sorry about all the mushiness and stupidity, I couldn't resist :P_

_Please, let me know what you think!_


	14. Chapter 14

_Eh, I can't believe it's over! It has been a fantastic ride, and I can't express how grateful I am for your support, my dear readers. You are amazing, all of you :)_

_This one, last chapter might give you mixed feelings, just like it did with me. I've been writing and rewriting it for weeks, and something still feels off, but you'll have to take it as it is. Perhaps I'll edit it one day._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

The final phase of sleep was hard to describe. One moment he thought that was it, that he found the right door and that his very much awake mind was finally going to reunite with its vessel, and in the next one he was floating away again. Eventually, however, his body began recognising more stimuli, and most importantly, remembering that it needed an operator.

Once started, the actual awakening was surprisingly short – at least for the outside world, because for John it felt more like eons passed before he managed to get his eyes to open. When he did, for a good while everything around him was blurry and shapeless, as if he was submerged in murky water.

Russell's warm voice drifted to him through the haze, and John grabbed it like a lifeline, letting it pull him to the surface.

"John? John, can you hear me? That's right, you're doing great," the doctor encouraged. "Just take it easy."

Very slowly, John's eyes began focussing on the man's face.

"D-... doct'r Russ'l," he mumbled into his mask. Curtis' smile widened a tad.

"Welcome back, John. Good to have you with us again."

John let out a short 'mhhm', and attempted taking in the surroundings. It was odd to see with his real eyes again, and when he realised that a big part of his mind's visualisations was inconsistent with reality, he began vaguely wondering whether he had imagined other, more important things as well. Quite quickly he also noticed that something was missing, and frowned as he tried to figure out what it was.

"Oh, don't worry. Mr Holmes should be here soon," the ginger doctor assured, seeing his confusion. "I called him once you started waking up, but he said he was on the other side of London."

After a short struggle to comprehend Russell's words, John nodded weakly. His memory was in shreds, and he had severe difficulty recalling the exact cause of his situation, but hearing the familiar name gave him something solid to hold onto. Now that he realised that Sherlock wasn't there yet, he figured he could use the time to gather some strength before he was to face him.

He tried to lift his hand and reach for the mask, but all he managed was dragging the heavy limb across the sheets.

"We'll work on that, John. Motor control looks mostly promising so far, but you'll be weakened at first. Just give it time, and don't even think of taking off that mask." Though the doctor's voice was firm, clear undertones of relief were audible in it.

During the next half an hour or so, with Russell's help John gradually acclimatised to using his body again – or at least the parts that were willing to listen to him. It drove him to the edge how feeble and sluggish he was, but the other doctor's support was a huge encouragement. John was very grateful that the man didn't insist that he should just rest, and seemed to truly understand his resolve to regain control as soon as it was safe and possible. Alas, the signs of various complications that started appearing during in the process were not so helpful.

Eventually, both doctors heard raised voices coming from the hall. The clamour was getting closer fast, and soon the door opened abruptly, revealing no-one else but a soaking wet Sherlock Holmes with an angry nurse and a security guard in tow.

"Doctor Russell, I'm really sorry. I tried to stop him, but he just wouldn't listen!" the young woman exclaimed, gesturing to the detective, but he didn't even seem to hear her. John removed his mask with difficulty and breathed a quiet 'Hi, Sherlock,' but it was lost in the noise.

The ginger doctor stood up, raising his hands placatingly. "It's fine, Miss Jones." He peeked over her shoulder at the guard. "Please Mr Carter, everything's under control, no need to intervene," he added with a beaming smile, and turned to Sherlock.

"You're sure you're okay, Mr Holmes? You look like you've taken a dip in the Thames."

Sherlock blinked and tore his eyes from his blogger.

"What? No, no, I'm fine."

The doctor's eyes shot from him to John and back. "Okay! Everybody out of the room. Give doctor Watson some privacy. Out now, please." With that, Russell moved towards the door, and all but pushed the young nurse and the guard out before exiting as well. John once again reminded himself to invite him for a pint or two once it was all over.

Then his and Sherlock's eyes met again, and everything else was forgotten for a moment.

"Hey," John slowly greeted his friend again, beckoning him closer. "The hell happen' to you?"

Sherlock remained where he was standing.

"It's, uh... it's raining," he said in a tight voice.

"So what, couldn't you..." John stopped to take a breath from his mask. "Couldn't you take a cab?"

"I did," came a hesitant answer. The detective decided against explaining to John that after receiving the call from doctor Russell he got stuck in a traffic, jumped out of the cab in the middle of the street, and practically ran (because of the deluge, of course) the last few streets to get to the hospital.

" 'kay, you'll tell me later," John sighed. "Come over here."

Sherlock obediently approached him and lowered himself to the chair, taking a rather awkward looking position as he drew his knees together and put his hands on them, reminiscing a shy child.

"You alright?" the doctor asked, trying to assess the tall man for any injuries.

"Am_ I_ alright?" Sherlock choked incredulously. "You're the one who just woke up from a coma."

After that, he had to look away. He'd never expected that hearing John's voice and looking into his big, clever eyes sparkling with life and will could affect him to the point where he would be barely able to form sentences, and his blogger's actual worry about his well-being rather than his own was almost too much to handle.

"I'm aware, thank you," John slurred, causing the bright eyes to fill with apprehension.

"Sorry, I shouldn't..."

" 'S okay."

Sherlock shifted in the seat, twisting his slim hands. "So, um... how are you feeling?" he stumbled.

It took John a longer moment to answer, and his strained expression openly spoke of how much effort it cost him to focus.

"Guess it could be worse. 'M lucky I can speak an' hear at all. 'Tleast that."

A shadow flashed through the detective's pale face. "At least?"

John's expression turned sour.

"Well, I... I _can_ see, but... I have some d-difficulty recognising what I see. It's rather inconvenient." Sherlock knew it was meant to sound light, but instead it ended up being the exact opposite. "And so 's this," John added grimly, and motioned to the whole left side of his body with his right hand.

He didn't have to say anything else. Before John awoke, Sherlock had been informed about the likely complications, and visual agnosia and weakness or even paralysis of parts of the body were mentioned, as well as a terrifying many others. Still, seeing how real it was all becoming right in front of his eyes was a blow.

He cleared his throat. "What did the doctor say? Will it recede with time?" His voice was so calculative that he wasn't even sure if it was him speaking. It was not the best build-up for what he was planning (and dreading) to say, but John didn't seem to mind.

"Curtis... doct'r Russell said 't might. Though..." Here John paused again. It pained Sherlock to watch him fight so desperately not to lose his train of thought.

John let out a small growl and rubbed his forehead roughly before continuing.

"Though he can't be sure yet. No-one can. Time will tell m-more. 'S possible some problems will come later."

The doctor quieted then, and it was apparent that he was becoming tired. Sherlock observed him in silence for a few moments, during which such a dizzyingly vast variety of conflicted feelings and words longing to be released accumulated in his head that he felt like tearing out his hair to distract himself.

He knew he had one chance, and if he wasn't going to do it now, that chance would be lost. He was certain he would soon come up with a shrewd reason for bottling up everything he wished to say, and though as a matter of fact he wasn't too ecstatic over the prospect of saying it, he felt that for once he should toss his pride away and just get on with it. Seeing John so insecure told him that if there was a right moment to do it, it was this one.

Decision made, Sherlock straightened in his chair, and tried to look into John's eyes again, but found it was too much. He settled on gluing his own to the bed's railing.

"Listen John, I want to... I need to tell you something," he managed, and felt the doctor's gaze on himself.

"What is it?"

_Everything, John. This. You. Me._

"I've been thinking about this a lot as of late," he spoke uncertainly. "And I mean it when I say that coming to this conclusion wasn't easy for me. I wanted to tell you while you were... asleep, but decided I'll wait till you wake up."

Again, silence fell between them as Sherlock fought to get the words out. John was watching him wearily.

"Yeah?" the doctor encouraged, and the detective felt even more uncomfortable.

"Ah, where do I start? This really isn't my area," he sighed, shaking his head in frustration, spraying water around himself. Why the hell was it so hard to just say it? He knew it and accepted it, even if rather reluctantly, so why was he behaving like a timid little boy?

Eyes still on the railing, he continued.

"After you were brought here... no. Since it all began, or _maybe_ even earlier I... I started realising something. At first I refused to believe it, and I was doing a decent job at that, but then you ended up here, and I just... couldn't ignore it anymore."

"What?"

"Shut it, I'm trying to focus," he grumbled nervously. "I... damn. It's just that when I understood that there was a chance you wouldn't make it, I realised _I_ wouldn't be fine."

Here Sherlock paused again and swallowed audibly, feeling his ears grow warm.

"John, I think I..." _Come on!_ "... was really worried about you."

_Oh for God's sake._

He looked down at his hands with disappointment. Even now, after everything that happened, he couldn't find it in himself to say what he thought John deserved to know, and what he knew he should get off his chest before it could suffocate him.

Why was it so easy for everyone else? Sherlock tried hard to convince himself that most people simply overused the word without actually meaning it, and when they did mean it, they weren't as willing to admit it. Then again, _he_ was not most people.

"Sherlock. Look at me," John addressed him quietly.

Something in the husky voice captivated the detective in a way that made him immediately forget about his uneasiness, as well as the stupid desire to flee the room. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he unconsciously allowed his eyes to lift until they met those of his friend.

The moment their gazes locked, Sherlock realised that John knew. He wasn't sure if what he felt upon that realisation was relief, dread or euphoria, or something else completely. Perhaps it was a bit of all.

"It's alright," John breathed. "No need to fret. It's completely normal, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John. There's nothing normal about this. Not for me." He meant both the spoken and unspoken.

"Well, I guess I should feel honoured, then. And I do. But I knew it already."

"Oh?"

"When I was asleep." Yet another pause. "I... I don't remember much, but I know you were... here."

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. There was no use trying to deny or dismiss it, but even if there was, he wouldn't have tried.

John shifted in his bed minimally. "I also remember what you said. And... what you did to get me out."

The detective was sure he heard a teasing undertone in his blogger voice, and immense gratefulness filled him. Though he no longer felt ashamed, he didn't hesitate to jump the opportunity to change the subject.

"Oh, come on," he huffed, rolling his eyes in mock irritation. "You were being stubborn, I had to improvise." Come to think of it now, he could have thought of something else, but the deed was already done.

John chuckled.

"It's fine. It was... quite an unorthodox method but an effective one, I grant you that. Please don't do it again."

"Then don't give me the opportunity," Sherlock murmured. Unfortunately, his slowly improving mood suffered a sudden decline as his brain chose that exact moment to have a violent flashback of John's reanimation, and he had to muster every last bit of his battered self-control to keep it together.

"I'll do my best," John said softly. "And though you pissed me off, I want to say thank you. For everything."

Sherlock cracked a smile. The momentary sensation of coldness coming both from his wet clothes and from within him disappeared, giving place to something he had no name for.

"You are welcome, John." _And thank you for staying._

_._

Later, the more Sherlock thought about that conversation, the more certain he became it was just a figment of his imagination. It was just too good to be true. He never quite dared to ask John though, and as naive as it was of him, for once in his life he wanted just to believe rather than risk having his belief crushed by reality.

And the reality was not a colourful one. John's recovery was not fast, easy or pleasant; in fact, it was dreadfully trying and emotionally draining for both of them, and pretty much every interested person. Soon after the awakening, it became clear the weakness of the left side of John's body needed a lot more work that initially expected, but that was only one of the issues.

It was hard for Sherlock, but for John it was torture. His initial enthusiasm faded quickly when it finally hit him full force that in real life, miracles had a high price.

The visual agnosia, although mild, was one of the most uncomfortable complications. Merely thinking about it made him growl and curse viciously, even when he wasn't sweating from the effort to name some most mundane objects. The shortness of breath, caused by post-nocardiosis lung scars, and the hearing and speech difficulties were horribly irking as well, but it was the confusion and memory holes that were driving him to the brink of endurance. They made him feel dysfunctional in ways far more profound and distressing than his body's indisposition.

There were, of course, quite a few important upsides. John's friends were doing their best to support him, and he was touched by their kindness, even if it was a bit overdone sometimes. Particularly exuberant were the fans' reactions – he received an embarrassing amount of flowers and chocolates, which he eventually had to give out to the personnel, because they no longer fitted in his room.

At least Sherlock provided him some actual entertainment during his visits. The detective didn't only tell him about the latest cases, naturally; they didn't talk much about the sensitive topic, but John was rather grateful that his friend didn't insist on bringing it up all the time, and gladly indulged in their equivalent of small talk.

After two weeks, he was allowed to go home. He wished he could say he was happy, but the sad truth was that he was far from it. Mostly, he was just tired. Drained. It wasn't just because of the difficult recovery, or because he couldn't deal with knowing that he almost died. With that he would have been fine, but the cause was not something he could fight against with the sheer power of his will, or with the help of his friends.

Albeit moderate, the brain damage was messing with John not only to the extent of affecting his coordination and memory. The infection and complications have compromised many structures of his brain, not just the brainstem, and it has alas resulted in some serious behaviour changes, mood swings that made him become anxious and jumpy being only one of them. He loathed it with passion, but couldn't control it. He was disabled – there was no other word for it.

He refused to take the wheelchair, but accepted Sherlock's shoulder without complaining. Slowly and clumsily, they made their way out of the hospital, and neither was in the mood for making jokes; in fact, not a single word was spoken until they finally reached their cab, John panting from the effort, and Sherlock being gloomy like the sky above.

The detective had to admit to himself that it was all very far from the progress he had naively hoped for. It didn't matter that he knew beforehand it could be like this, or that he's learnt the basics of dealing with it. It hurt all the same.

Yes, John was alive. Yes, he was miraculously still more or less himself, except that he wasn't at the same time, and that was the most painful thing for both of them.

_But he is here. It will be hard, of course it will. The price is high, but ask yourself - is there one that you wouldn't be willing to pay?_

He tore his dimmed eyes from the side of John's head. Once again, he had to agree with that stupid, internal voice of his. He would – he _was going to _do whatever it took, no matter what it would entail. All the frustration and anger that he knew were upcoming, the despondency that was already looming over both of them, all of it was worth enduring if it meant that his best friend was to recover someday.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock started. They were already on Baker Street.

"Ah, yes, right," he muttered, scrambling to extract his wallet.

John got out of the cab without a word, and slowly moved towards the building. A few moments later Sherlock found him sitting on the wooden stairs, breathing loudly and gaping at the floor.

With a heavy weight on his shoulders, the detective approached his friend.

"Comfortable?" he accosted, struggling to sound light.

The dusty-haired head lifted, and tilted it to the side. "Ha. So funny."

"I try."

John lowered his eyes again, and seemed to be drifting away fast, but Sherlock had no intention of giving up, ever.

"Come on, get up. Or I'll carry you," he warned.

"I'm fine, thank you. You can't always carry me."

"Yes, I can."

It was almost absurd, how layered a sentence this simple could be. Sherlock meant it in every sense, and he didn't even care how cliché it sounded. Ridiculous or not, it was raw truth that he knew he couldn't afford to hide behind the veil of impassivity anymore.

His thoughts unconsciously drifted to the night after he and John met. It felt like it was ages ago, but the image of the two of them standing in the very same hall side by side, giggling like children right after a wild run through the night was still clear as day in his mind. The painfully stark contrast between that and how they were now almost made Sherlock wish he didn't remember it so well.

He took a step towards John. The dark eyes lifted to his face, and they were so full of childlike vulnerability that Sherlock found it difficult to keep his expression even. It never ceased to strike him how much of the doctor's usual self-confidence was taken away by the damage, but he knew he had no right to let it show.

Their gazes locked. Something was missing in that look, something that both men feared might never return, but there were also many new tones that were shining through it - some of them previously absent, and other simply concealed, dormant. Waiting.

Whatever the future was going to bring, for now it had to be enough.

Sherlock's deep voice resounded in the hall, dragging both men back to the present.

"We'll deal with this."

"How?"

"Somehow." _Together._

He extended his hand towards John. The doctor took it, and let his friend pull him to his feet.

* * *

_That's it, then! In case you were wondering, in my head the conversation in the hospital didn't actually happen, but you're free to think whatever you want. It indeed felt a bit too good to be real, though, with Sherlock being so open and all the sweetness. Also, you're right - HLV ending did affect me when I was writing it._

_As for the ending part - it was my intention to make it somewhat angsty and open, in case I feel like writing a follow-up someday. John is of course still taking medication and being 'monitored', but I felt I don't need to mention that._

_I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it :) I would be extremely grateful if you left a comment now that it's complete, I'm dying to know your thoughts!_


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